Malg the Magnificent - დიდებული მალგი
by Levi Buchanan
Summary: Malg has come all the way from the Dragontail Mountains to study at the College of Winterhold and is expecting to amaze his teachers and dispel the notion that orcs make poor wielders of magic. However, his life at the college does not go exactly as he might have expected.
1. Part 1: The Eye of Magnus

Malg the Magnificent

Part 1: The Eye of Magnus

The air was brisk and chill, as it often was when Mirabelle Ervine took her midmorning stroll along the top of the wall which surrounded the College of Winterhold. The walks helped her clear her head and reflect. Much had happened in last month, not least of which was her ascension to the position of Arch-Mage. It was something she had always wanted, but it had come at a cost. Her friend and predecessor, Savos Aren, had paid the ultimate price in trying to protect the college from the megalomaniac actions of the Thalmor agent tasked with keeping tabs on the college. She hated even the memory of the elf and refused to speak his name, but she took solace in the fact that, even though they had lost Savos, that ruddy elf was dead, too. She remembered the moment. It had played over and over in her head for a week. After returning from Labyrinthian with the Staff of Magnus, she and Tolfdir had broken into the Hall of Elements. The elf was so smug, he did not even acknowledge their presence, that was until she turned the staff on the Eye of Magnus. The power of the staff tore the magic from his grasp, and without the Eye, he was completely vulnerable. At that moment, a gout of flame from Tolfdir's hands engulfed him. She remembered the elf's face as he died, first his robes and then his skin catching fire, his screams echoing throughout the chamber as he crumpled into a heap of charred and smoking flesh. She pushed the thought away. As much as she hated the elf, the way in which he died was still upsetting, and she did not like to dwell on the images burned into her mind.

All of this had started when Tolfdir had taken the new novices into Sarthal without any safeguards. That was risky enough, but then to send them off on their own without his direct supervision? What was he thinking?! she asked herself. He wasn't. That was the problem. A responsible professor would not tell the students to go on while he stayed behind. Obviously, new protocols had to be put in place to keep ignorant students from bumbling into draugr-infested crypts. Thankfully, that expedition had not ended with any deaths, but it easily could have. Teach the novices a ward and then have them take on the undead?! Idiot! She had suspended Tolfdir for a month. She would have expelled him completely had he not been instrumental in retaking the college. Their Master of Alteration was due to return to teaching the following day when a new group of novices was scheduled to arrive. Hopefully, he had learned from his mistake and would not have plans to take this class anywhere dangerous, at least not on their first day.

Mirabelle leaned against the battlements and looked out over the gap between the College of Winterhold and the rest of the city. The Eye Debacle had not improved the relationship between them, which had been as cold and icy as the weather ever since the Great Collapse. At least the only losses were experienced by the college itself rather than the city. She shuddered to think at the backlash had the city lost anyone. It may very well have been a mob showing up at the college gates. It had taken several meetings with Jarl Korir to smooth things over, but luckily, the civil war was far more pressing for him now that the Eye of Magnus had been taken by the Psijics. Once she had convinced the jarl that the cause of the trouble was gone, he decided to leave them be, which was enough for Mirabelle. In time the people of Winterhold may embrace the college again, but that would likely take generations still. She would do her best to repair the relationship, but for now, she would settle for the Stormcloaks not marching up to her gates.

As she made to turn back, she noticed someone approaching the college bridge from the city. She guessed the person was male by the way he walked, but beyond that, she could not see much. He was wrapped in dark robes, and the hood was pulled low over his face. Perhaps he was one of the new students, arriving early and eager to get settled in for classes the next day. Mirabelle watched as he neared the bridge. She wondered which test Faralda would administer to the applicant. Their master destruction trainer had the odd penchant for asking the prospective student their own preferred field of magic only to test them in another. Some might consider this bait and switch a tad cruel, but Mirabelle let her do it. She decided it was a good way to test the novices' adaptability, a crucial skill in magic.

Mirabelle was too far away to hear what was being said, but she watched, hoping to see her first student as Arch-Mage pass his initial examination. After a few moments, there was a flash of green light. That was odd. Mirabelle could not think of a novice or apprentice level spell that gave off that particular hue. She squinted her eyes and continued to observe only to see the figure in dark robes walk out from under the first archway and make his way toward the college, without Faralda. What had happened?! Had he killed her?! Was this an attack?! Mirabelle rushed to the other side of the wall and sounded the alarm. College guards rushed to the gates casting defensive spells as they went. Whoever this person was, they would not be getting inside to do any more harm! She rushed down the stairs and through the Hall of Countenance, calling to those nearby to stay back from the main gate.

College guards had already secured the gate, and the robed figure stood outside the bars, his arms raised in surrender and a look of confusion on his face. His hood was thrown back, and when Mirabelle came face to face with the intruder, she was surprised to see the dark greenish skin and tusked mouth of an orc. It was not unheard of for orcs to use magic. Urag gro-Shub was in charge of the Arcanaeum, but to find an orc who desired to study magic, much less one that was any good at it, was exceedingly rare. From what she knew, their culture did not seem to hold much esteem for the arcane, nor did the race itself exhibit any proclivities toward the magical arts as did Bretons or Altmer. Instead, orcs, for the most part, seemed far more at home on the battlefield, encased in heavy plate or at the forge crafting it.

This orc was not in heavy plate, nor did he seem to understand why he was being held by the guard. As Mirabelle came closer, she heard him desperately trying to convince the guard he was no threat.

"I passed the elf lady's test," the orc was saying. "That means I get to come study magic. That is what she said."

"What is the meaning of this?" Mirabelle asked as she came up to the gate. "Where is Faralda? What have you done with her?!"

The orc answered, "F-ralda, the elf lady on the bridge is still there I think."

"Is she hurt?" the Arch-Mage asked.

"Not as far as I know," the orc shrugged.

Mirabelle breathed a sigh of relief. "Alright," she said. "Then why has she not accompanied you here? It is protocol for her to lead new students onto college grounds."

"This would be difficult," the orc said.

"Why?" Mirabelle asked, her eyebrow rising suspiciously.

"She is paralyzed," the orc replied.

"You attacked a member of the college?!" the Arch-Mage growled. "Why? What is your purpose here?"

"No!" the orc firmly denied the accusation.

"Then what happened?" Mirabelle asked.

The orc began to put his hands down, but when the guards shouted, they shot back up into the air. "Ok, ok, I am not doing anything!" the orc yelled. "I mean just to expound. The elf lady told me I would have to pass a test to come to the college, show her I could cast a spell. She said to summon a flame atronach. Well, I think she was not paying attention because I told her I want to learn alteration. It is what I am good at. Dead should stay dead. Fire does not need to be brought to life either. That seems stupid, so instead, I showed her my spell."

"So, you cast paralysis when she asked you to summon a flame atronach?" Mirabelle asked.

"It seemed like the smart thing to do at the time," the orc shrugged. "It is now seeming less smart."

Mirabelle heard footsteps and saw Faralda running up the steps to the gate. The moment her eyes locked onto the orc, the elf grimaced, and flames began to dance in her hands.

"Hold!" Mirabelle shouted.

A look a genuine disappointment came over the altmer's face, but she dropped her hands. "Sorry, Arch-Mage," she said. "The stupid orc blindsided me with a paralysis spell!"

The orc shrugged and scrunched up his face. "I showed you I can cast a spell," he said.

"You were supposed to summon a flame atronach!" Faralda yelled.

"Living fire in a small confined space?" the orc asked, shaking his head. "You elves are supposed to be smart."

Fire blazed in Faralda's eyes again.

"I don't like conjuration," the orc mumbled. "It's creepy."

The college guards and staff all looked at each other rather bashfully, shrugged their shoulders and nodded. No one could deny what the orc had said. That particular school of magic was irrefutably unsettling. Many practitioners of the arcane had found their talents lay in calling daedric minions from out of the Oblivion wastes or even reanimating the cold corpses of the deceased, and even if some looked at it was disdain or revulsion, it was not illegal.

"Uncomfortable or not," Mirabelle began. "It is part of the curriculum here, and you will have to deal with your own feelings toward it. If you cannot handle that, you might as well leave." She was already impressed with the orc's restraint. Faced with Faralda's insult and a challenge to fight, most orcs would have responded very differently. It was at that moment that Mirabelle had decided to accept the orc into the college. After all, paralysis was a rather high-level alteration spell. He undoubtedly had the skill to succeed, but he would have to come to terms with his distaste for conjuration.

The orc thought it over as the others looked on, and he continued to think it over as the others got bored. The guards began looking around awkwardly, trying to find something else to look at instead of the orc's brooding face.

"Well?" the Arch-Mage asked finally. "Can you accept that?"

The orc nodded.

"Good," Mirabelle said. "What is your name, orc?"

"Malg gro-Snegburgak," the orc said proudly. "From the Dragontail Mountains."

"I officially accept you into the College of Winterhold, Malg gro-Sne… Malg," the Arch-Mage said. Faralda will show you to your new quarters."

Faralda pushed by the guards, grumbling something under her breath. "Come on, orc," she snapped. "Try to keep up. I have a feeling I will be saying that a lot." She led Malg to his room in the Hall of Attainment, a small circular stone tower built into the outside wall of the college. Other rooms, just like the one she assigned to Malg lined the hall opening toward the central room. A blue light rose from a pit in the center of the room, magically lighting and warming the hall against the frigid Nordic winds. "This is where the new initiates sleep," she said. "The previous class has already been moved out."

"Where did they go?" Malg asked.

Faralda thought for a moment. "I don't know," she admitted. "Somewhere I suppose. Doesn't matter. We are dealing with your class now."

The orc shrugged and flopped down on his bed. Faralda stared at him angrily. "Nothing?" she asked. "Nothing at all?"

"What you mean?" Malg asked.

"You don't want to apologize for paralyzing me?" Faralda asked.

Malg sat up in his bed. "Did I do it wrong?" he asked.

Faralda gave him a scathing look, then turned and left the hall.

The Hall of Attainment was nearly empty. Malg could hear someone walking around on the second level, but they did not seem interested in coming down to greet him. He decided it would be better to keep to himself until tomorrow. Perhaps he could figure out why the elf seemed so angry at him, so he did not make the same mistake again. He was not angry with her for not opening the gate like she said she would, but maybe elves and humans just said things they did not mean. There was an orc like that back home. Malg could not remember his name, but he said a lot of things he did not mean. It caused a lot of problems, but the chief dealt with him quickly. His skull was still hanging on the chief's longhouse the day Malg had left.

Eventually, Malg gave up on trying to understand Faralda. Maybe she was always that angry. He decided to spend his time more productively by using telekinesis to rearrange his new room, which had been cluttered with numerous things by the previous tenant. When he finished that chore, he began tossing anything he felt was useless through the pillar of blue light into the room across from his. Perhaps the new occupier of that room would have some use for human skulls, vampire dust, and the other odd alchemical ingredients that had been left behind. Once he was happy with his new quarters, Malg laid back on his bed. Skyrim was bigger than he had been led to believe, much more than the frozen waste some of the Redguard caravan drivers had implied, and the cold, mountainous area around Winterhold almost reminded him of home. It was different obviously. It was much whiter in Winterhold, as snow from earlier falls looked to be piling up rather than melting off as it did in the Dragontails, but it was just as cold here, if not a bit colder. Malg did not mind, though. He had been accepted into the college. That was enough for now. He pulled his blankets up toward his neck until his big, green feet peered out from the other side. He snorted and wiggled his toes as the glowing blue pillar warmed the bottoms of his feet and quickly drifted off to sleep.

The next morning Malg met his fellow novices and new classmates while he attended a rather dry and unengaging class on safety and magical theory. Across from him, on the other side of Tolfdir, was a Breton. He was short, of medium build with bright blue eyes, and he was the only other male in the group. He also must have been rather handsome for a human. The Nord twins had shoved Malg to the side in order to secure a place next to him, and they continued to ogle him and whisper to each other throughout the lecture. Malg wanted to be helpful. He considered suggesting that they whisper more quietly if they did not want the Breton to know they were speaking about him, but he found himself entangled in his own complication with a rather sultry Argonian called Wiggles-Her-Fingers.

"Rather boring, is it not?" she asked.

Malg nodded, his attention on Tolfdir as the mage spoke about the need to stay together whilst exploring unknown areas.

"In Blackmarsh, we are taught not to wander off as hatchlings," she commented. "Are they not taught the same here?"

Malg turned to address her. "I would not know," he replied. "I am not from Skyrim."

"Indeed," she smiled. "You are a rather lovely shade of green."

Malg's eyebrow rose at the unexpected compliment, and he started a bit when she winked at him. He immediately forgot everything Tolfdir was speaking about as his mind raced for some way to extract himself from the uncomfortable situation. He turned back toward the professor, but in his peripheral, he could see Wiggles-Her-Fingers slowly shifting in his direction. Moment by moment, she inched closer and closer. Malg was frozen, clueless how to react until Tolfdir asked for a volunteer. So, delighted by the opportunity presented, the orc never realized quite how hard he shoved the Breton out of the way in order to escape.

"Woah, ho ho," Tolfdir said as Malg approached. "I like your enthusiasm! Let's see. For this demonstration, I will need you to stand on the emblem over there, alright?"

Malg eagerly took his place opposite the professor. It was at this point that he realized he had no idea what was expected of him. He vaguely remembered the professor saying something about defensive magic, but the unexpected advance of the female Argonian had hijacked his attention. He was now standing opposite Tolfdir. The rest of the students had gathered off to one side, waiting and watching intently. Malg wanted desperately to go back in time and hear what Tolfdir said. He wanted to call a halt to the lesson and get an explanation from anyone about what was happening, but if he did, if he was the one person in the class who needed everything to be repeated, he would be known as the stupid orc from now on. His race had already dealt with that stereotype for long enough, and he would not give the others a reason to believe it because some ridiculous Argonian took a liking to his particular skin tone.

The next few moments seemed to go by in a blur. As Malg stood ready, trying to read the expression on his professor's face, he noticed a bright, orange spark flicker to life in the man's hand. He had only the briefest moment to react as Tolfdir tossed the conjured ball of flame toward him. He cried out in surprise and wildly slung up the first defensive spell that came to his mind, a spell he had learned a number of years back from an old elf traveling from Cyrodiil through the mountains near his tribe's stronghold on his way to High Rock.

As he cast it, a purple glow enveloped his body. Gasps of confusion escaped the lips of a few students, but what Malg saw was Tolfdir's expression shift through the flying fire as it reflected off of the orc's skin like light off the surface of a calm lake. It hit the professor's chest, and the old man staggered backward several steps as his robes caught fire. He yelled out in surprise and pain, trying desperately to pat out the flames. Fortunately, he gave up on that quickly and resorted to a few bursts of frost to save what was left of his clothing.

The entire class stared, mouthed agape as Tolfdir began to heal the slightly charred bits of flesh on his chest and then turned all at once to look at Malg who could only manage one word of apology before fleeing the Hall of Elements.

The healing spell Tolfdir cast did its work. When it had completed, the only evidence of the mishap was the damage to his robes, which he was not upset about. The College of Winterhold supplied several sets to each professor, and whenever a set had become worn, he was supplied with a new one. Accidents were covered as well. Considering how volatile magic could be, it was expected that mishaps would occur from time to time. This was not the first time a set of his robes had been ruined, and he doubted it would be the last. "Wow! I did not expect that!" Tolfdir exclaimed. "Where did you learn to… where did he go?" Concerned with healing his burns, the professor had not heard Malg's apology, nor had he noticed the orc's departure.

Malg was angry and embarrassed, horrified that his first day of instruction had gone so horribly awry. He was supposed to be the one who changed the minds of people toward orcs and magic. He was supposed to be the one to show the world that his people were capable of mastering the arcane as well as the forge, slinging spells with the same skill and power as they swung steel, and this was not the way to begin. He had failed at the very beginning, so badly he had set one of the college's professors on fire. Would they even let him stay after that? He entered the Hall of Countenance and plopped himself down on his bed. The arch-mage seemed somewhat impressed with how he had passed the test at the gate, even if it had ruffled some feathers. Perhaps that would be enough to give him another chance.

As Malg was pondering his future at the college, the two Nord twins appeared in the stone portal in front of him. Malg looked up at them. "Come to gawk at the orc who cannot control his magic, huh?" he asked. "What do you want?"

The twins glanced at each other and smiled slyly as they slinked seductively to either side of the orc. Malg was too engrossed in his own thoughts to notice the manner in which the girls surrounded him, but the moment their fingers touched his shoulders, he jumped, the contact shocking him out of his stupor.

"You got a raw deal, orc," the first one said sitting down next to him.

"Yes," the second agreed. "Hilde is correct. Professor Tolfdir should never have been that upset with you for performing such a wonderful display of defensive magic. You are indeed skilled," she fumbled for a moment realizing she did not know his name. "I would like to know the name of the most powerful orc mage I have ever seen."

The statement had been meant as a compliment, but it stung Malg like a dagger in ribs, "orc mage." They still did not see him as a peer. "Malg," he mumbled.

"Malg!" she exclaimed. "Malg the Magnificent!"

Malg shot the two Nords a suspicious glance. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

Hilde ran a finger along the orc's chin. "What my sister Gerthr is trying to say is that you surprised everyone with the power you command today, so much so that you made them feel inadequate."

"Really?" Malg asked.

"Of course," Gerthr replied. "Tolfdir assumed you couldn't do anything. He figured at all you were was an orc, hardly capable of the simplest charms. Why do you think he chose you as his example? He expected you to fail. Then he could keep us all there while he droned on and on about safety."

"Well," Malg shrugged, but Hilde broke in.

"But you surprised us all!" she exclaimed. "You not only blocked that bolt of fire he threw at you, you somehow reflected it right back at him. You should have seen his face!"

"I did," Malg said.

"Then you saw the moment he realized his ploy we over," Gerthr said. "When you proved to him that you were far better than he thought you were, possibly more powerful than him!"

"But," Malg tried to interject.

"Exactly!" Hilde said. "Think about it! He attacked. You not only defended yourself, but you used his own magic against him, penetrating his defenses, and showing yourself the better mage!"

"Perhaps, but," Malg said raising a finger, but the twins did not let him speak.

"You know what he should do now, Hilde?" Gerthr mused.

"What is that?" Hilde asked, a look of mock inquisitiveness on her face.

"I think he should prove to all of them exactly how powerful he is," she said.

"How would he do that, Gerthr?" Hilde asked.

Gerthr acted as if she was pondering a myriad of possibilities before settling on the statement she had in mind all along. "The Eye of Magnus!" she whispered.

Hilde gasped, "Gerthr! What are you saying?"

"Do you think he is not powerful enough to claim it?" she asked.

"Of course, he is," Hilde replied. "But do you think it is necessary for him to venture down into Saarthal for such a powerful artifact?"

Malg's eyes were shooting back and forth between the twins so quickly he started to get dizzy.

"And why not?" Gerthr asked indignantly. "if he has the power to claim it, which he certainly does, why should he not possess it? It would show the skeptics of this college that orcs can indeed master magic, possibly more so than they could ever have imagined! The proof is right here, sitting next to us, magicka coursing through his veins. I can almost feel it radiating from him. I think he should have the eye, don't you?"

"Well, of course, he should have it," Hilde said. "After the show, he put on today, no one is more deserving of it."

"What is this Eye of Magnus?" Malg asked, finally finding space to speak.

"One of the most powerful artifacts in all of Skyrim," Hilde said, her eyes sparkling. "Have you not heard of it?"

"No," Malg said.

"Well," Hilde continued. "It is only because you are not from here. Most Nords do not even know of it because they care nothing for magic, but from what I remember, it would enhance the wielder's own arcane power. With your already substantial power, if you were to obtain the eye, you would be the most powerful mage in all of Skyrim."

Malg's eye flashed with desire. "Where is this Eye of Magnus?" he asked.

The twins smiled, and Gerthr replied, "In Saarthal, an old Nordic ruin southwest of Winterhold."

A grim look of determination came over Malg's face as the orc rose from his bed. It was clear what he must do to accomplish mastery over the arcane. The twins had shown him the path, and all that was left to do was to obtain the Eye of Magnus. With a brief word of thanks, he pulled his hood up over his head and left the hall so focus on this new goal that he did not hear the muffled, girlish giggles of the twins behind him.

Malg stole out of the college as quietly as he could. The college staff may not realize his ability, but others had. They could see how capable his grasp of the arcane was, and the last thing he needed was jealous professors keeping him from obtaining the power he deserved. The Eye of Magnus, Malg silently mouthed the syllables as he crept through the courtyard. To his surprise, the college's entrance gate now stood wide open, seemingly ready to admit anyone who stumbled across the old stone bridge leading from Winterhold. His entrance to the college would have been a lot easier had he arrived when the gate was open the first time, though he felt slightly troubled over the lack of security. Did these mages really think no one would try to break into their citadel? He decided not to question his good fortune too much, however, because the open gate was one more opened door to his destiny.

As he crept from the college grounds, the orc stayed as low as he could, using the short stones of the bridge to hide his movements and then sneaking around the backside of those structures in the city that were still standing. The exhilaration of his stealthy escapade had his heart pounding in his chest. He had escaped the College of Winterhold without anyone being the wiser to what he was up to. No one knew that soon he would arrive at their gates a second time bearing one of the most powerful objects in all of Tamriel.

"Where is Malg going?" Tolfdir asked as he watched the orc slowly tip-toeing out of the college gate. "I promise I did not send him anywhere."

"Do you think perhaps he is quitting?" Mirabelle suggested.

"I do not think so," Tolfdir replied. "He has talent. It's a bit unorthodox, but he does have an expert command of some spells. I have not seen a reflect spell cast in my entire time at the college."

"Nor have I," Mirabelle agreed. "But that is not what you asked him to do, is it?"

"No," Tolfdir said. "I was just looking for a simple ward spell. Look at that. He looks to be trying to sneak across the bridge. I wonder why. The gate opened for him. He should realize that he is not confined to college grounds."

Mirabelle shook her head. "Do you believe he is a danger to the class?" she asked.

"Oh, goodness me, no," Tolfdir replied. "It was a simple mistake. I doubt it will happen again once I teach him a ward spell. They are much easier to cast, even if they do drain mana like an open wound."

"Stick to the curriculum, Tolfdir," Mirabelle said. "Wards work well enough to guard against spells. There is no need to drum up old magic to do what we are perfectly capable of doing already. I would think that our most recent dalliance with the ancient arcane would have impressed the dangers upon you sufficiently."

"Of course, arch-mage," Tolfdir replied.

Mirabelle understood the nuance. That was the phrase Tolfdir had started to use ever since the disciplinary action she had taken against him to show that he was going to submit to her even if he thought she was completely wrong. Mirabelle did not mind. She would much rather he submit to her than endanger more students. There were already too many people with bad feelings toward her college, and she planned to ride out the rough waters with control. Control magic. Show that it can be used safely. She would do whatever she could to disassociate magic from the destruction of Skyrim former capital. If not, who knows what might happen, especially if Ulfric manages to secure his hold on this part of the province.

Saarthal was a dark and gloomy place, like most old Nord burial mounds. Unlike most of these places, however, Saarthal held a grim past as the setting of the infamous Night of Tears when the snow elves attacked and slaughtered almost every human living there. It was an event burned into the consciousness of many Nords and helped fuel their continued hatred and animosity toward the elven peoples. Malg, however, new none of this. He stomped noisily into the old ruin looking high and low for anything that had the appearance of an eye. A couple times he thought he might have found what he was searching for, but after closer inspection, decided the small rocks just did not look enough like an eye to be called the Eye of Magnus. The orc steeled himself. He reminded himself that if it was that easy, others would already have come down here to claim the eye. After all, the only spell he had cast up to this point had been a paralysis spell, his favorite, on the troll wondering about outside. Obviously, there would have to be more standing in his way to deter any powerful mages from journeying here to collect it.

Malg pressed on, searching further and further through the caverns until he found a curious broken wall with a long tunnel carved into the rock behind. The sharp edges of the fractures made it appear as if the wall had been shattered by a large hammer. Malg stopped and studied the scene wondering if someone had made it to the prize before him. It seemed possible, but whoever it was had obviously failed to claim the eye. Had they succeeded, Malg was sure everyone at the College of Winterhold would know, perhaps everyone in Skyrim. No, the Eye of Magnus was still down here somewhere, and he was going to retrieve it.

Malg followed the tunnel to a small chamber that led to another small corridor before opening up into a large crypt. Set into the wall all around the room were sarcophagi crafted from intricately carved stone, and Malg could see the desiccated bodies of ancient men in several of them, still dressed in ancient Nordic armor. It was a chilling sight that sent all the hairs on the back of the orc's neck tingling. Something was dreadfully wrong about this place. It was almost as if the corpses were watching him. Quietly, in the stillness, the hollow cavities of their skulls seemed to stare back at him, watching. What did they want?

Malg waited in the chamber's entryway half hoping the corpses would just disappear and knowing at the same time that if they did, he would be running so fast for the exit that the stones themselves might tell later generations of the swiftness of frightened orcs. Again, he reminded himself of why he was here. Forget the dusty old corpses. He was here for the eye. Steeled once again, he stepped the rest of the way through the portal. As his foot fell upon the floor inside the crypt, Malg heard a low, cracking groan. He looked down at the stones as if they had taken offense to his weight, but quickly realized it was not the stones that had taken exception to his presence. Across the room, one of the ancient corpses had begun laboriously pushed the stone lid off of its sarcophagus. The weighty, slab slammed so hard onto the floor, that Malg felt the tremor reverberate in his foot as the sound echoed off the chamber walls. The corpse shambled out of its not so final resting place and wrapped its crusty, decaying hand around the hilt of a rusted, old greatsword. It lurched forward under the weight of the massive weapon as it hauled it up over its head and began to advance on the encroaching orc. Malg cursed his terrible fortunate but was soon singing a string of profanities as more and more draugr stepped out of their stone coffins and set the hollows of their skulls upon him.

This was not the first fight Malg had found himself in. He was, after all, an orc and an orc who had managed to survive past adolescence. He had every instinct bred into his people since their fall, but where most of them relied completely on armor and weapons, Malg brought spellcraft to the table. The first bone walker fell to a flash of green light. Unable to move, his skull was crushed under the orc's heavy boot. The sword in its hand then rose, violently expelling itself from the draugr's skeletal grasp and placing itself firmly in Malg's right hand. The orc raised his new weapon and brought it crashing down on the next corpse. The blade did not penetrate the helm, but the force of the blow crushed the smaller vertebrae of the spine, sending the skull rolling back onto the floor. This hardly slowed the draugr as it swung its ax in consecutive deadly arcs. Malg fell backward, nearly losing his head to the draugr's relentless attacks. He slung the greatsword at the corpse, impaling the abomination and sending it lurching about as it tried to deal with the large blade protruding from its chest.

Malg muttered a few words, and the green hue of his skin began to darken to a smooth, burnished black as deep as the night sky. As the next corpse swung its sword, Malg raised his forearm to ward off the blow, but instead of slicing through flesh and bone, the old blade fractured against the orc's ebony skin. A small trickle of blood showed bright red against the glossy black skin, and Malg breathed in deep, his eye widening, adrenaline coursing through his veins bringing fury with every rapid beat of his heart. He roared in rage, the passion of battle seizing his senses. He grabbed the undead with both hands and pulled with such ferocity that the old ligaments stretched and snapped. Malg roared again and ripped the walking corpse apart. The orc turned and wretched the battle-ax from the flailing, headless draugr, and smashed it to the stones before cleaving his way through the rest of walking corpses.

Malg found himself again standing on the far side of the short bridge that ran over the center of the room holding onto the haft of an ancient, Nordic battle ax. He did not remember the last few minutes, but the scattering of corpses across the stone floor of the burial chamber and the soft ache in his head was all the evidence he needed to piece together what had happened. It was not the first time he had gone berserk, and it probably would not be the last, though he felt a pang of shame in his inability to control his orcish rage. He felt deeply that it was not the way for a mage to behave, even in battle. A mage keeps his head, casts his spells, defends himself with his magic, not with the brutal savagery he had delivered here. Malg swallowed and dropped the ax. It clanged loudly in the now silent room. Almost mournfully, he walked over and pulled the chains to open the way further into the crypt.

The rest of the underground tunnels were, for the most part, empty. Whoever had managed to leave the first burial chamber undisturbed, had apparently taken a different approach further on. Malg found the torched remains of numerous draugr littering the corridors as he ventured further and further into the depths of Saarthal. Malg found it very strange how much trouble the Nords went to in order to preserve the bodies of their dead. To an orc, it seemed an odd, even macabre practice void of any practicality. After all that effort, the bodies just laid there, unless they somehow arose on their own or some necromancer decided to reanimate them, moving them to his will with deviant magics like some perverse puppeteer. Malg shook off a shiver. Just the thought of it made his skin crawl, and it did not help that he had recently been forced to dispatch several of the restless dead. The shambling of another walking corpse roused Malg from his thoughts with the unmistakable clatter of steel against bone. The orc silently scolded himself for his lack of attention, losing his focus in the middle of exploring ancient ruins infested with undead. It only takes one mistake, one lapse in concentration, to become one of the corpses yourself. As he turned the corner, Malg cast his favorite spell. The spark of green light sailed silently down the stone passageway until it touched the draugr. It washed over the walking corpse like a hazy gleam, something between light and mist. The corpse tensed, the slowly rotting flesh and bones unable to move, and then it toppled rigidly to the stones. Malg smiled. That was how a mage dealt with an enemy. Quick and easy. He did not have to resort to the vulgarity of violence. He was above such boorish behavior. He pulled the steel helmet off the corpse, then picked up a large, loose stone and dropped it squarely on the draugr's exposed head. The orc considered his own hypocrisy in light of the satisfying crunch. Perhaps there was just something in the soul of an orc that gravitated toward that kind of conduct. Was he really as far above it as he thought?

The philosophical conundrum pulled at his thoughts as he traversed the rest of the carved-out corridors. He considered the scorched corpses left by whoever had previously entered the place. There were no fresh corpses, so whoever put those draugr to the flames must have been a magic wielder of some skill in order to destroy so many undead and survive. However, was it really the evolved sort of combat he had always considered it to be? The result was the same, destruction. Was it any better than the sword or the hammer?

The floor shifted under Malg's foot. In a moment, the same reactions that had led to his flight from the Hall of Elements kicked in. With a flick of his wrist, his skin hardened to the same burnished black as before. Malg stood there as the small, envenomated darts bounced harmlessly off his skin. Once again, a lapse in concentration had blinded him to danger. He picked up one of the steel darts. It was a thick sharp piece of steel, still coated with a sticky venom. One might think it would be completely lethal, enough to kill an intruder. Even with the protective spell, it should have hurt, caused some kind of minor injury, but they were somehow as impotent as the fists of an angry toddler. Malg decided not to concern himself with any more traps that might be hidden along the way. If they were anything like this one, it would not be worth the worry.

At the end of the long, winding corridors of stone, Malg stepped out onto a ledge overlooking a rather spacious chamber. It seemed to be a room of some importance. The ancient wooden pillars which had somehow impervious to the decay of centuries still supported a carved stone overhang. Two staircases and additional wooden structures which appeared equally unreceptive to the normal decomposition process surrounded the front portion of the room, at the center of which was a large stone table alight with candles. Magic must indeed be coursing through this place. How else would could this stale air continue to fuel these candles? An elaborate stone chair had been built close enough to the table for someone to oversee what was happening there, but not close enough to do any work upon it. Malg wondered what kind of place this was. Perhaps some kind of ritual chamber or a place of preparation for the dead? A corpse was still lying on the table completely bound with the exception of its head in what appeared to be thick linen bandages. Behind the chair was a stone circle set into the floor surrounded by four stone columns. Was this the Eye of Magnus? A stone circle? Malg descended the stairs and cautiously approached the ring. He cast of few protective spells before slowly reaching out his hand toward the ring. The orc scrunched his face. He could not see any runes or other magical traps, but if this was indeed an artifact of the kind of power the twins described, it may react violently to his intrusion. He inched closer and closer and then nothing. It was nothing, just an empty stone circle. Malg sighed and turned away. He grumbled, angry at the dawning possibility that the twins had sent him on a fool's errand. Vengeful thoughts began swirling in his mind until he noticed a bent and broken form lying on the ground next to the throne in the shadow of the stone table.

Malg walked over to it and rolled the old corpse onto its back. It was ancient, dried with age, but the draugr had been in some kind of magical battle. Perhaps, Malg thought, perhaps this was Magnus! He looked to be a great mage of old. It may be that the artifact the twins had spoken of was indeed a real eye from the great mage, Magnus, and he had discovered his remains! This was indeed a historic event, the discovery of the body of Magnus! Malg thought of how the professors of the school and the arch-mage would stand in awe of his discovery. There was no way they would expel him from the college now! He bent down to examine the face of the corpse. As he pulled off the helmet, part of the scalp stuck and cracked as it pulled away from the skull. "Gross," Malg muttered and tossed the helmet away. The extremely cold climate and relatively dry environment of the tomb had mummified the mage's body, but it had sustained major damage from the flames someone had employed against it. Enough non-metallic pieces of the armor had been burned to cinders, that if the draugr had decided to rise again, the breastplate and other steel plates would have fallen to the floor. Half of the face was charred and black, but the other side was untouched. In the skull, preserved by the inhospitable temperatures of Skyrim, was the mage's eye. Malg marveled at it, imagining the power that would be his once he had plucked it from the skull. The orc reached forward but paused at the last moment. This was foolish. What was he thinking? That eye would never survive being pulled from the socket, and what power would remain if it was crushed during the extraction? Somehow, he would have to remove the eye without destroying it.

The solution came to Malg almost immediately. Touching the eye, he cast ebony skin, but instead of focusing the raw energy of Aetherius onto himself, he focused it solely onto the draugr's eye, which soon shone like black glass. The orc ripped the rotting head from its body and seizing it between his large hands, began to squeeze. Soon he heard the first crack and then another as the skull began to cave in. Finally, the bones of the skull buckled under the force of his arms, and the ebony eye was freed. Malg rolled it over and over in his hand, moving his thumb over the uneven surface. He did not feel any different, but perhaps it took time to absorb the immense power contained within. He smiled a large, toothy smile and tucked the eye into a pocket.

On the table, next to the corpse were several items, but what Malg found of particular interest was the staff. It appeared to have remained untouched on the stone surface, even during the draugr's final battle. It appeared to be a restoration staff, which may have explained why it was left behind, but as Malg picked it up, he got an entirely different energy from it. Considering he did not have a staff of his own yet, he decided to keep it along with the eye.

Several hours later, Malg marched triumphantly across the bridge to the College of Winterhold, his lips curled into a proud grin. He wondered if anyone here had ever been able to bring an artifact of such power to the college before. Even if some of them did not want to except orcs as capable wielders of magic, they would have to be impressed with this, and there would be no way they would expel him unless they wanted to risk missing out on the power it held. He had decided on the way back that if anyone asked, as they most assuredly would, how he managed to retrieve the Eye of Magnus, he would leave out the part about his little episode. Orcs already had the reputation for going berserk, and he did not want the fact that he happened to go berserk to cloud the mages' perceptions on his magical skill.

Strangely, there was no gathering waiting for him inside the courtyard. All of the mages seemed to be going about their business as usual. One of the college guards said hello to him as he passed. Had they not wondered where he was? Surely, someone had noticed his mysterious disappearance over the last couple days. No matter, it was now time to reach the accolades of his accomplishments.

"I have the eye!" Malg yelled as he thrust his trophy high over his head.

Collete Marence, who was walking across the courtyard close to Malg at the moment of his outburst, screamed in surprise and clutched her chest. "What is wrong with you!" she yelled but continued on her way.

Several of the other mages in the area looked over at him, puzzled expressions on their faces.

The guard who had just greeted him, turned back around, a quizzical look on his face, and then approached. "What are you yelling for, orc?" he asked, obviously confused, but wanting to give Malg the opportunity to explain himself. "There's no need to upset everyone."

Smiling, Malg showed the guard the ebony-infused draugr eye. "I went into the ruins of Saarthal and recovered the Eye of Magnus!"

The guard looked at the small trinket, which looked even smaller in orc's large palm, and then slowly raised his eyes up to the orc's glowing face. "You say that this is the Eye of Magnus?" the guard asked. A smile quickly appeared on the guard's face, which he immediately tried to hide. "Malg," he said, as he attempted to smother a smirk. "The Eye of Magnus is an extremely power item that radiates an incredible amount of magicka. Do you feel anything coming off that?"

"Not so much," Malg admitted. "But encasing it in ebony probably masks a lot of it."

The guard managed a pained smile. "Malg," he said. "That is not…"

"Malg, what is it you have found?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers had approached silently through the snow behind him. "Is it a gem?" There was a twinkle of curiosity in the Argonian's eye as her fingers squirmed and fidgeted unconsciously.

Malg turned and proudly showed her the eye he had recovered. With Malg's attention elsewhere, the guard, seeing his way out of the uncomfortable situation, quickly turned and continued on his way. "Gerthr and Hilde told me about the Eye of Magnus," he proclaimed. "I ventured down through the dangers of Saarthal to recover it. I doubt they ever expected me to return."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers' face dropped, and a laugh exploded from the edge of the courtyard drawing the attention of both the orc and the Argonian. It was the twins. Wiggles-Her-Fingers cast an icy glare at the two Nords who continued to laugh as they retreated back into the Hall of Attainment. Once they were gone, she looked back to Malg who seemed to have pieced together what had happened. Pride became embarrassment, and embarrassment turned to anger. A grim look was set into the orc's face, and his eyes, usually bright and clear had taken on an unsettling edge.

"Pay no attention to those egg sacs, Malg!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers began. "They are just stupid girls who have no heart! They are foolish and mean, but they are not worth your anger!" She tried to hold onto the orc as he moved toward the Hall of Attainment, but her efforts proved useless as the large orc quickened his pace toward the door.

The blood vessels in Malg's eye broke, and the white surrounding his eyes reddened. His hands curled into fists, and Wiggles-Her-Fingers felt his muscles swell as she continued her vain attempts to dissuade him. Filled with uncontrollable rage, Malg roared and charged toward the door. At that moment, Tolfdir emerged from the hall's door, and a flash of green light was the last thing Malg saw before everything twisted into form and color. Sounds faded into the distance and then became clear again. He felt the cold of the snow around him, but he could not move. He lay staring up at the clouds as they slowly drifted across the clear, blue sky.

"Help me with him," he heard Tolfdir say to Wiggles-Her-Fingers. He heard the casting of a couple spells and then felt hands grip his ankles and under his arms, but he could not even shift his eyes to see who was lifting him out of the snow. They carried him into the Hall of Attainment and set him down in his bed. Then there was another flash of green.

"What happened?" Tolfdir asked.

"It was the twins, Gerthr and Hilde," Wiggles-Her-Fingers answered. "They fooled him into thinking a great relic was in the ruins of Saarthal. When he came back with what he thought was the relic, they laughed at him. I imagine he risked his life in there, and it was for nothing."

"I see," Tolfdir said. Then there was another flash of green, but it was different. Malg felt the rage subside, replaced again by embarrassment. "Stay with him. He should be fine now when the paralysis wears off. I will deal with the twins."

A few moments later, Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked, "Can you move?"

"Yes," Malg replied continuing to stare at the ceiling.

"I am sorry they tricked you," she said. "It was cruel, but you did manage to survive in an old ruin full of draugr. That is not something just any mage can do. You should have confidence in that at least. Either of them would have perished in that ruin, even if they had gone together."

Malg huffed. He did not feel particularly proud of what he had done.

"Don't worry," she said. "Tolfdir seems to be a fair and even-handed person. I doubt it will go bad for you."

"I was a fool," Malg snorted.

"Maybe," Wiggles-Her-Fingers shrugged. Malg turned to face her. "We all do foolish things sometimes. That is what flawed creatures do. The best we can do is learn so we can stop doing stupid things. We both learned something valuable today, that it is foolish to trust Gerthr and Hilde. So now we will not. Simple."

Malg pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the Argonian's feet at the place where her bright green scales met the tops of her short boots which was only visible because of how she sat down in the chair. He was not conscious of where he was staring, however. He was weighing her words, and after a moment he decided that they were indeed wise and worth listening to. He looked up at her face, something he had never done before. Her expression was kind and gentle, and he smiled back. Then he asked, "Was the Eye of Magnus even a real thing?"

"Yes, indeed," Tolfdir answered from the doorway. "It was an immensely powerful relic found deep inside Saarthal. I discovered it with the help of the previous class, which is why all you found in the last chamber was that staff," Tolfdir motioned to Malg's staff which had been brought in with him, "and whatever that black thing is you are holding."

Malg cast the draugr eye to the floor. "You were the one who defeated the draugr?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," Tolfdir replied, nodding. "Myself, Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo. I recognize that staff. It was laying on the table, correct?"

Malg nodded.

"The truth is that after seeing the Eye of Magnus, we all forgot about it entirely," he said. Tolfdir entered the room and sat down. "The girl told me what they did," he said. "And they have received their punishment."

"Good," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

"I quite agree," Tolfdir noted. "It was treacherous of them to endanger your life as they did. However, it was also completely out of line to attempt to attack them as you did."

Malg nodded.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers attempted to say something, but Tolfdir cut her off. "You will be punished, too," he said. "There must be order at this institution."

"What is it?" Malg asked.

"For the next week after your lessons, you will be helping Urag gro-Shub in the library," Tolfdir said. "He is very protective of the college's books. I hope that as you work with him you will gain a better understanding of how to handle things more delicately."

"Understood," Malg nodded.

"Good," Tolfdir said standing up. As he made to leave the hall, the staff caught his eye again. "That is a fine staff you have there, Malg. I regret not remembering to pick it up myself. If Jyrik Gauldurson once kept it as his own, I'm sure it will serve you well."

The next week went by very quickly as Malg was kept busy from dawn until dusk. In the mornings, he attended lessons given at the college by the various masters in their respective schools. His favorite class was Alteration, which was taught by Tolfdir. It was also the class in which he excelled already being quite skilled in that particular area of magic. The other classes were far more difficult for him. Wiggles-Her-Fingers was able to help him through Restoration, and in turn, he helped her when she was stuck in Alteration. Unfortunately, neither of them were doing very well in the other classes. The Breton, Edwyr, was the top student in every single school with the exception of Restoration where Wiggles-Her-Fingers was just barely edging him out, making the rest of the students look rather hapless. Even the twins were realizing how bad he was making the rest of them look, and had begun to ignore Malg in order to whisper all kinds of terrible things about the Breton behind his back. Malg did not know if Edwyr ever heard what the Nords were saying about him. If he did, he did not seem to care. His indifference to the twin's verbal barbs was something Malg found laudable, and he wished he had shown similar restraint each day as he made his way upstairs to the library.

Urag was indeed particular about the books kept in the college's library. After personally threatening Malg with all kinds of bodily harm should he damage even a single page, he allowed the orc to begin re-shelving the stacks of books that other members of the college how carelessly left out on the tables set around the room. Once he was finished with that, Urag instructed him on how he wanted several of the shelves reorganized. It took a long time, but Malg had nearly completed the reorganization by the end of the week, leaving only a couple of shelves for the librarian to finish up on his own.

As the clock chimed, Urag dismissed Malg with a grunt and a nonchalant way of the hand, and Malg left for his room. His sentence was complete, but he still had a lot of work to do. He was behind the other students, but for most of his classes, he could not have cared less. Conjuration was still creepy, and he had had no desire to continue his study of it when Phinis had brought a corpse into the classroom for them to practice raising. He walked out of the class, and he did not plan on going back. He was not too far behind on Illusion. All they ever did was cast fear, fury, calm, repeat. It might finally get interesting next week when Drevis planned to teach them muffle. He was also not worried about Restoration. Wiggles-Her-Fingers would help catch him up tomorrow. Destruction was still interesting. He needed some serious work on his fireball, but that was not what he was planning to hit first. Tolfdir had assigned him some more advanced alteration work that he really wanted to dig into it.

When Malg entered his chamber in the Hall of Attainment, Wiggles-Her-Fingers was sitting next to his bed, the salty trails of tears visible on the scaly contours of her face. When she saw Malg, the tears began again.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Unable to answer as her body convulsed with sobs, Wiggles-Her-Fingers thrust an unsealed envelope at Malg's chest. The orc, confused by the sudden and unexpected display of emotion, opened the letter and began to read:

 _Wiggles-Her-Fingers,_

 _In the name of Jarl Brina Merilis, it is with great regret that we inform you of Watches-The-Water's death. The deceased has bequeathed unto you a measure of inheritance in the amount of 100 gold pieces. The Jarl's court has levied an amount of 10 gold pieces from the sum, as the lawfully and honorably due tax. The remainder has been commended unto the care of a trusted courier for deliverance._

"Who is Watches-The-Waters?" Malg asked.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers did the best she could to compose herself, but her words were sporadically interrupted by sniffs and sobs. "He is my egg-brother!" she cried. "Now he is dead, and I do not know how or why or what has been done with his body!"

Once again, Wiggles-Her-Fingers descended into sobs. Malg had no idea what to do. Orcs did not cry. Crying was weakness, looked down upon even in childhood, but he was clever enough to realize that other cultures were very different from the strongholds. Perhaps this was the expected reaction for an Argonian if their sibling died. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. She was, after all, his only real friend at the college, and he did not want to insult her. He stood in front of her for a few uncomfortable moments, not exactly sure what his job as the friend was supposed to be. If she had been an orc, it would have been easy. If she cared that someone had killed him, he would help her find whomever it was so that she could kill him. Simple. However, if no one killed him, there really was nothing to be done about it. Malg reached out and awkwardly laid his hand on her shoulder, and Wiggles-Her-Fingers jumped up from the chair and caught him in a full embrace. Shocked, but happy he had done the right thing, Malg wrapped his large, green arms around her slender frame. Eventually, her sobs subsided, and she pulled away from him.

"I need to go to Dawnstar," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "He worked there at the docks, trying to get on with one of the ships."

"Why?" Malg asked.

"Kaoc!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers exclaimed. It was a word Malg had never heard before, but he was fairly sure he understood the meaning. "To find out what happened, why do you think?" she asked.

Malg shrugged.

"This stupid letter told me nothing other than that the jarl decided to take ten percent of his money as a delivery fee. I need to know if it was an accident or if it was something darker." She paused for a moment. "I know you just finished a punishment. You probably do not want to risk getting into any more trouble with the college, but I do not have any other friends here. Would you come with me?"

It was not a difficult request. Malg nearly answered before Wiggles-Her-Fingers had asked the question. Of course, he would go with her. She was his friend. "I will come with you," Malg nodded.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers smiled a wide, toothy, Argonian smile. "Very well, then," she said. "We leave tomorrow morning before the sun rises. Thank you, Malg." And with that, she left the chamber for her own.

Malg tossed his robe onto the chair where she had been sitting when he arrived. Apparently, he would be leaving once again. The College of Winterhold was very lax when it came to rules about coming and going, so he did not expect any reprisal. At worst, he might get further behind on his studies, but what was that in comparison to helping a friend and perhaps a bit of real world experience?


	2. Part 2: Dawnstar

**Malg the Magnificent**

 **Part 2:** _Dawnstar_

Rough gales of icy winds kicked up snow into Malg's eyes as he and Wiggles-Her-Fingers trudged through ankle-deep slush. It was difficult to see in such terrible weather, but Malg had been through worse. He squinted his eyes and continued forward.

"We are nearly there," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said, her teeth chattering in the cold. "It should be very close now."

Malg could already see the shapes of structures appearing out of the snow. The buildings promised warmth and respite from the bitter cold as the temperature had already begun to drop with the setting sun. They passed a guard who politely pointed them to the Windpeak Inn, and the two quickly ducked inside. When Malg opened the door, the warmth hit him like a wall. His skin tingled all over as it enveloped him like a hug, and he heard Wiggles-Her-Finger sigh in delight. They ignored the tables and moved directly toward the stone firepit in the center of the room where they stripped off their wet boots and put them up on the edge to dry. After he had turned several times to offer every side of his body to the warmth of the flames, Malg looked around for space at one of the tables. Wiggles-Her-Fingers, however, seemed content to stay by the flames, eyes closed, with a satisfied smile on her face.

"What will you have, stranger?" asked a red-headed Nord. "Dinner, a drink, or a song?"

"Food would be nice," Malg replied. "And a place to stay for the night."

"For you and your friend?" she asked with a sly smile.

Malg's face instantly flushed. He had not asked Wiggles-Her-Fingers about the arrangements at all, and he was now mortified at the server's insinuation. He tried to speak, but only managed a few words that tumbled out in an awkward stutter.

"One room will be fine," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said, handing her a few coins and sitting down next to Malg. "We will need two plates, though, and a couple mugs of mead."

"Wonderful," the server replied. "I'll be right back with your food. My name is Karita. Let me know if you need anything else or if you have a song request."

"I wouldn't mind hearing your lute," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

Karita smiled, nodded, and went over to the bar to get their order. Soon they had hot food in front of them and the beautiful melody of Karita's lute filled the inn. Malg quickly shoveled down the first half of his meal but slowed once the keen edge of hunger had been satiated. Wiggles-Her-Fingers took her time, switching between her food and drink, and watched as the fire seemed to dance to the lute's tune.

"She is very good," Wiggles-Her-Fingers commented.

Malg nodded. Now that his stomach was full, drowsiness was creeping up on him. The journey had taken more out of him than he had realized, but it did not matter. He relaxed and let the music flow over him until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

Malg awoke the next morning in a bed with no recollection of how he ended up there. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and as he moved his legs toward the edge of the bed, he felt the hard, cool sensation of scales against his skin. The shock sent him tumbling off the small frame and onto the floor. A tail poked out from under the thick sheets and furs covering the bed, but it was quickly drawn back under like a snake escaping back into its den. At that moment, Malg realized he was wearing nothing but his undergarment. He quickly scanned the room, found his robes sitting nicely folded on a wooden chest, and nearly fell over himself trying to get dressed.

"You take up a lot of the bed," Wiggles-Her-Fingers groaned sleepily. "I almost had to leave you on the floor."

Malg's face was flushed as he tried to piece together what had happened the night before. "What happened?" he asked. "Did we…?"

Wiggles-Her-Fingers peeked out from under the covers and glared at him. "Shut your mouth!" she snapped. "What kind of woman do you think I am? Someone has been reading the wrong kind of books!" There was rustling under the covers, and a scaly hand snatched the college robes that were sitting next to Malg's and disappeared under the sheets again.

"Sorry, I did not mean to presume anything," Malg apologized. "I just did not remember anything after dinner last night."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers threw back the covers and gingerly touched the stone floor with one toe. She winced and quickly withdrew it. "Do not worry about it," she said casually. "Can you toss me my boots?"

Malg obliged, handing her the boots and then putting on his own. "Where do you want to start?" he asked.

"At the docks," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "Someone there should be able to tell me what happened to him. That line of work is not so dangerous. If it was an accident, someone will have seen it. If not, well, we will deal with that if it comes."

The two made their way from the inn down passed the smithy to the cove around which the town was built. The snowstorm had cleared away during the night, and the sun shone brightly in the wide-open sky. The brisk air was invigorating, and both Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers found themselves more awake each time they breathed it in. A long pier was built from the western shoreline out toward the center of the small inlet where one ship was currently docked, and a dock worker and several sailors were unloading cargo.

"I thought it would be bigger," Malg said.

"Me too," Wiggles-Her-Fingers agreed. "Something more like Riften."

Malg followed his friend along the edge of the water. Ice had formed at the edge where the water touched the land, and it crunched under their feet as they made their way toward the single pier. Malg was fascinated by the ship, which though average size for a cargo vessel, was far and away the largest he had ever seen. He knew that the Nords made such vessels that allowed them to navigate open waters, but his imagination had failed to realize just how big they were. By comparison, the small crafts the Redguards used to traverse the limited waterways of eastern Hammerfell were hardly worth mentioning. As he admired the ship, one of the sailors noticed their approach and called out. Other sailors on the upper deck began to appear at the gunwale to observe the mages, who seemed to be as rare a sight to them as their ship was to Malg.

Before they were able to get the attention of the dockworker, a salty old Nord with a shaggy beard and greying blonde hair stepped in front of them. "What's your business here?" he asked. "I got no use for any more hands if that's what you're wanting."

"We are not looking for jobs," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "We are with the College of Winterhold. My egg-brother used to work here, Watches-The-Waters, but he died recently. Did you know him?"

The moment the college was mentioned, the man's countenance changed. He tried to interrupt and turn them away, but when Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked about her brother, he fell silent. He seemed to want to say something, but his eyes darted around as if he was suddenly worried about doing so. Eventually, he called over to a resting dockworker. When the worker came over to them, he whispered something into the man's ear and then retreated inside a nearby building without another word.

"What was that about?" Malg asked.

The dock worker, his head slightly bowed, spoke in a low voice, "He wants you to know what happened, but he doesn't want to be the one to tell you."

"Very well," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "What happened to my egg-brother?"

"He was killed," the worker said.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers' face hardened. "Dark waters," she muttered. "Why?"

"I don't know myself," the worker explained. "But it was one of the Blood Horkers. Maybe he angered 'em in some way?"

"Blood Horkers?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

"Pirates," the worker explained.

"Who names themselves after bloated pig-whales?" Malg asked.

"They come to Dawnstar regularly," the worker continued. "Sometimes they cause a bit of commotion at the Windpeak, but they don't usually kill anyone. Most people know they are trouble and stay clear of 'em."

"Why was he afraid to tell us?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

"He doesn't want any trouble," the worker explained. "I wouldn't be talking to you myself if he hadn't just threatened my job."

"I see. Does anyone else know about this?" she asked.

He shrugged, "Didn't see it myself. I 'spect someone had to, though, since most people know about it."

"Alright," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "Go back to work."

"Thank you," the nervous dockworker said. He scampered back to the pier and grabbed the first barrel he could find to haul to the ship.

"What is wrong with these people?" Malg asked Wiggles-Her-Fingers as the dockworker heaved the barrel up onto his shoulder. "I have heard Nords tell of the brave exploits of their ancestors ever since I crossed into Skyrim. Now they are cowed by some stupid pirates? I think some of them have forgotten how to deal with criminals."

"They are afraid," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "There is nothing wrong with being afraid."

"If it keeps you from acting as you should," Malg retorted. "There is."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers huffed, but she did not respond.

"You want to wait for the Blood Horkers to come back then?" Malg asked. "So, we can avenge your brother?"

Her resolution faltered. Wiggles-Her-Fingers was not a fighter. She had considered what she wanted to do if her brother had indeed been murdered, and she had come here with every intention of killing them. Now, however, she was unsure. She had assumed that if he had been killed, the culprit would have been some drunk Nord who had lost control. Here she was faced with an entire ship full of brigands, and Malg seemed completely immune to the terror that was slowly enveloping her mind and turning her spine to jelly. "Yes," she gulped. "That is the plan."

"Good," Malg said. "Let's go back to the inn. We can wait for them there."

The two mages returned to the inn. Wiggles-Her-Fingers told Malg that she did not sleep well and disappeared back into their room to lay down. Malg felt bad about it, absently rubbing a hand across his belly. His friend needed to be at her best to avenge herself, and his big belly had kept her awake all night. He decided to stay out of the room, so she could rest, and maybe he could find out a little more about the pirates to make up for it.

Malg asked Thoring, the innkeeper, what he knew of the Blood Horkers, but he was either unwilling or unable to give much more information than the dockworker had. Once Malg gave up trying to get any information from him, he ordered some food and sat down at one of the tables.

Malg stared deeply into the flames that danced up and down the long stone firepit rising like an altar in the center of the floor. The melody of Karita's lute and the talking patrons seemed to fade into the background as he tried to think of what else he could do. He wanted to have every advantage over the pirates when they came, but he did not want to try to ambush them in the inn and possibly endanger everybody else inside. At the same time, if they attacked the ship at the pier, all the pirates would have to do is escape back out to sea.

Lost in thought, he hardly noticed the inn quieting down or the food set in front of him. He was unsure of exactly what kind of meat was in the soup, but it was good, and he happily slurped it up. When he picked up the hunk of warm bread to soak up the last remnant of the soup, he noticed a small piece of parchment hidden underneath. Malg paused and looked back at the innkeeper, but Thoring was cleaning a mug and paying the orc no mind. Malg looked around and then, trying to be as nonchalant as he could manage, he slowly unfolded the scrap, which read: "Meet me behind Windpeak." Malg pocketed the parchment and stuffed the rest of the entire piece of bread into his mouth, an action he quickly regretted when he nearly choked on the loaf, his eyes filling with tears as he tried his best to chew without spitting it out. Once he managed to down bread, he considered what he should do about the note. His first inclination was to go and wake Wiggles-Her-Fingers, but he still felt guilty that she had not slept well. He did not want to wake her up just to walk out into the cold and listen to information he could easily relay to her later. That just did not make any sense, and she might get even more upset with him, so he decided to meet up with whoever had left the note on his own. His decision made, Malg stood up, scanning the room for anyone acting suspiciously, and then walked out the front door.

Around the backside of Windpeak Inn, Malg saw the bard Karita leaning against a large pine trunk. "It took you long enough," she said.

"You left the note?" Malg asked.

"Of course," the bard replied. "I heard what you were talking to my father about, and I hate those blasted pirates. They're a foul sort that I would personally rather be rid of for good. They stink of fish, their language is worse, and any time I walk by they try to slap me on the rear. If that wasn't bad enough, they hardly ever pay what they owe us. My father started counting it as a win when they left without breaking anything."

"I'm sorry for your troubles," Malg said.

"Forget the sympathies," Karita said, waving him off. "Are you and the Argonian going after them?"

Malg nodded. "One of them killed her brother," he said.

Karita's face fell. "It was that nice Argonian that worked at the docks, wasn't it?" she asked.

"She did say that was where he worked," Malg said.

"It happened in the Windpeak," Karita said. "A couple of the pirates grabbed Abelone while she was tending the fire. It looked like they were trying to take her out of the inn. When she screamed, Gjak and some of the miners from Iron-Breaker Mine tried to intervene. Then it was all blades and pickaxes. The Argonian tried to stop the fight, but one of the pirates slashed open his stomach right in front of us. I still remember the look on his face when he saw his guts spill out onto the floor. It was terrible, but that was nearly two months ago. Why did you wait so long?"

"Wiggles-Her-Fingers only just recently received a letter from the jarl," Malg replied. "Did no one pursue the pirates? Surely he had friends who would not let that stand."

"A few of the miners did," Karita said. "And they called the guard on them, but the ruddy felons were too quick to their ship. They haven't been back since, and I doubt they will be any time soon unless they want to tangle with the guard."

"Is there anything else?" Malg asked.

Karita thought for a moment. "I don't think so," she said. "Good luck. I hope you kill every stinking one of them, and if you see the skinny one with a crooked nose, torch him extra for me."

She left Malg standing out behind the inn, his mind racing to work out another way to find the Blood Horkers. They could not sit around Dawnstar forever waiting to see if the crew returned one day. Waiting to ambush them was already going to take longer than he anticipated. It was doubtful any of the crew would let their location slip to any of the town's general populace, but there are those who would have a vested interest in knowing where the pirates were when they were not in Dawnstar. He was going to have to wake Wiggles-Her-Fingers. They needed to see the jarl.

In the winter, the days in the northern province of Tamriel were rather short. The sun was already diving toward the horizon when Malg walked back into the Windpeak, and to his surprise, when he opened the door to their room, Wiggles-Her-Fingers was already awake. In fact, it looked like she had not slept at all. She was just sitting in a chair next staring distractedly at an empty plate of food.

Malg decided to ignore it. "We cannot stay here waiting for the Horkers," he said. "They will not come back without risking the wrath of the jarl. We have to go find them."

"I am not sure I can handle this," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said as Malg closed the door behind him.

"Handle what?" Malg asked.

"Hunting down brutal murderers," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "I am not sure I have the constitution for it. My egg-brother is gone, but if we continue with this, we might also die at the hands of those terrible people."

"Perhaps," Malg conceded. "But so will others if justice is not done."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers looked directly at him. "Is that not what the law is for?" she asked. "To protect the innocent and punish those who break it?"

"They will, if the pirates return," Malg said. "But I do not think they will. They will hide from justice, so we must bring justice to them."

"Is it just that simple?" she asked.

"Yes," Malg replied. "It is simple."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers rose from her chair, a slight smile on her face. "What will we do then?" she asked.

"We will go to the jarl," Malg said. "She may not have been willing to hunt them down, but she should know where they are hiding."

"Alright," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

The inn was much quieter than usual as Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers exited their room. Karita was no playing and no one speaking, preferring instead to quietly retreat into their cups. Thoring was staring angrily toward the door, and Malg followed his eyes to three men clad in steel plate. As the two mages walked out into the common room, the three men, who had taken over the table nearest the door, stood up. One of them, who carried a large battleax stepped forward grinning.

"You have been poking your nose in where it don't belong, orc," he said. "We have been sent to remedy that."

"What is it you want?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked fiercely, but the slight catch in her voice told of her true emotions.

"Shut up, scaleskin," the Nord sneered. "I didn't speak to you, nor do I want to hear your frog voice." His eyes turned back to Malg. "What are you two even doing here?" he asked. "This land is for Nords. Your kind don't belong here."

"Everyone is welcome in my inn!" Thoring yelled.

At that, one of the armored men walked over to the innkeeper and belted him across the face with the back of his steel gauntlet. Karita screamed and blood sprayed from Thoring's crushed nose. He wobbled backward, bringing up his hands in an attempt to defend himself, but his assailant struck low and the innkeeper collapsed on the floor groaning. He went in for another attack, but suddenly Karita's cries were drowned out by a deafening roar.

"Stop it!" Malg bellowed.

The leader of the small group held up his hand, and the assault stopped. "Now, that is the kind of spirit I was hoping for," he said. "Something vigorous and lively. I have pounded on far too many people who were just begging for mercy. It wasn't any fun. This contract we have on you says I'm supposed to beat you until you agree to leave Dawnstar, but I want you to know I will be killing both of you. It'll accomplish the same end, and I think your tusks will make a nice necklace. Plus, I think my wife would like the color of her scales."

"Wait," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "We were just leaving anyway. There is no need for this."

The Nord's smile widened as he ordered his henchmen to attack. The Nord who had put Thoring on the ground drew his sword and cried out loudly before charging the mages. Malg heard Wiggles-Her-Fingers hiss angrily from behind him just before the mercenary took a bolt of lightning to the face. The powerful surge of energy dropped the man to his knees. Black, scorched flesh hung from his face, and he wailed until Malg clubbed him across the side of the head. The Nord crumpled to the floor, blood oozing from his ear.

Malg turned in time to see the other lackey advancing quickly on Wiggles-Her-Fingers. He moved to help, but he need not have bothered as two bolts of lightning leaped from the Argonian's fingers and dropped the man instantly to the floor. The thug struggled to one foot, but Wiggles-Her-Fingers struck again. This time the lightning seemed to sear the very air around it as it traveled from the mage's hands. The mercenary's body arched terribly and then convulsed unnaturally before it was consumed by the spell. The armor clattered to the floor and ashes spilled out over the stone floor. Wiggles-Her-Fingers looked at what was left of the man in horror, stunned into inaction by what she had done to her attackers.

The leader of the hired thugs, however, was not so taken aback, and his strategy became clear as he followed on the coattails of his accomplice, his ax raised to strike. It nearly worked, had Malg not hit the Nord with a paralysis spell, the man would have cleaved Wiggles-Her-Finger's head from her body. Instead, his stiffened body fell sideways coming to rest against one of the table benches. Malg strode forward, wrenched the ax from his hands, and tossed it into the firepit. He picked up the helpless mercenary and slammed him against the table.

"Who sent you?!" he yelled.

The Nord was unable to answer, but Malg knew the spell would not last forever. He pinned the man's neck to the table with his staff and waited. Soon, he saw the effects of the spell fade.

"Answer the question!" he commanded.

"Rot in oblivion, orc," the Nord gurgled.

"Kill him!" Karita yelled as she helped her father to another table.

Malg pressed down harder on the man's neck. The mercenary groaned in pain, but he refused to cry out. "Answer me!" Malg roared, but the only answer he received was a sharp pain in his side. He looked down to see the hilt of a dagger protruding from his stomach and the Nord laughed as he pulled it free for another attack. Unfortunately for him, he never got the opportunity. As the pain hit him, impulse and muscle memory worked in conjunction with magic. His skin hardened and darkened to a glossy black, but just as quickly his blood boiled as he was overcome by the bestial rage common to his kind. The other people in the tavern could only look on in abject horror as the orc lifted the mercenary over his head and slammed him bodily down on the table. The blade was forced from his hand as the oak planks cracked under the impact of his body. The orc raised him again and again, slamming him into the table until boards broke, and the table collapsed into splinters and firewood, but the orc's rage had not yet been satisfied. Leaping on top of the mercenary, he began to beating the man's head side to side, denting the steel helmet with his ebony fists. The Nord was no longer resisting, and blood leaked out from inside the helmet onto the floor. Still unsatiated, the orc ripped the helmet off the mercenary and slammed it down repeatedly on what was left of his fractured skull until he finally grew weak from loss of blood and passed out. Blood and brains covered the floor of the Windpeak Inn, a sight seared into the memories of all those who had been unlucky enough to behold it.

A warm, golden glow emanated from Wiggles-Her-Fingers' hands as she healed the wound in Malg's side. The skin closed up over the wound and the color returned to his face. Once his eyes opened, she ended the spell and helped him to his feet. Malg looked around, embarrassed and ashamed of what had happened. It did not help that those in the inn were staring at him with what appeared to him to be looks of fear and horror. He was about to suggest to Wiggles-Her-Fingers that they leave when Thoring, his nose broken, approached them.

"Do not worry about the damage," the innkeeper said. "I will sell their armor to Rustlief and recoup the losses. It was not right what they did, trying to kill you like that. I am only sorry I could not help stop them myself, if for no other reason than to show the two of you that not all Nords are like them."

"Of course," Malg said. "I do not think you are."

"Thoring," Wiggles-Her-Fingers interjected. "Let me fix your nose."

Thoring nodded, and a moment later, no one could tell the assault had ever happened except for the blood staining his shirt. "Thank you," he said. "I wish I could fix this shirt as easily. Oh, well. Forget that. All these clothes will be ruined by the time I clean this place up. Are you indeed leaving as you said?"

"We are," Malg replied. "We need to talk to the jarl, but I think we will stay here another night if that is alright."

"Fine by me," Thoring said, and with a final nod, he got to work collecting what he could from the bodies and cleaning up his inn.

Outside, Malg breathed in the evening air. "I'm sorry for what I did in there," he said. "I know it was horrifying. It is not something I want to do."

"Neither of us wanted that," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "They forced it upon us. Neither of us should have to justify defending ourselves from those who would murder us."

"At least you defended yourself properly, like a mage, not like an uncontrollable beast," Malg replied.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers grabbed him by the hem of his hood. "We're alive, Malg," she reminded him. "If you want to say mine was a better method, you can, but the result was just as hard to witness. None of it was good. It was just necessary."

Uncomfortable, Malg tried to look away, but Wiggles-Her-Finger refused to let him escape. When she caught his gaze again, she whispered, "You did nothing wrong by defending yourself. You killed someone who was trying to kill us and very nearly succeeded. Just because you did it with your hands doesn't make you any less of a mage. Anyway, you did use magic. Not even orc hands can dent well-made armor like that, and a few moments earlier you saved my life with a spell. He would have killed me had you not paralyzed him. You are an orc, Malg. There is nothing wrong with that, but do not be deceived. You are very much a mage also."

Malg smiled despite himself. It was the first time anyone had ever called him a mage, and he felt a swelling in his chest to hear it from someone who was an accomplished mage herself. At that moment, his shame had been washed away along with his self-doubt.

The sun was just dipping below the horizon, and the temperature was quickly dropping along with it. The White Hall was not far from the Windpeak, and when the two mages walked in, they were glad to see Jarl Brina Merilis was still willing to see them. As they approached the jarl's throne, Imperial soldiers walked on either side, swords drawn.

"It is nothing personal," Brina said. "But your jarl and I are on opposite sides of a war. Two attempts on my life have already been made, and both of you are covered in blood."

"I am sorry for our appearance, Jarl," Malg apologized. "We were ambushed at the Windpeak Inn by armed men."

"I see," the jarl said. She whispered something to her housecarl, Horik Halfhand, who sent a messenger fleeing from the hall. "Very well," she continued. "What do mages from the College of Winterhold want here in Dawnstar?"

"The College of Winterhold is neutral in the war, Jarl," Malg said. "As are the two of us, but we are here on personal business. I am Malg, and this is my friend and colleague, Wiggles-Her-Fingers. Her brother was killed in your city, and we are here to deal with those responsible."

Jarl Merilis' face turned grave. "You must be referring to the Argonian who was murdered at Windpeak Inn," she said. "A truly unfortunate affair." She turned toward Wiggles-Her-Fingers with true empathy in her eyes and expressed her condolences, then continued, "I am sorry, but I do not remember his name."

"His name was Watches-The-Waters," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

"I want you to know that I wanted to deal with those bloody pirates the day they killed your brother," Jarl Brina said. "However, holding the northern front of the war requires all the legionnaires, auxiliaries, and everyone else I have under my command. I still have every intention of root out the brigands and hang every single one of them for their crimes against the people of Skyrim, but until this war is concluded, I cannot spare enough to take Japhet's Folly."

"What is Japhet's Folly," Malg asked.

"It is where the Blood Horkers are laid up acting like I will forget their crimes if they just lay low long enough. I am not Skald, the doddering old fool. Those pirates will pay for their crimes. You have my word. However, I would understand if you do not want justice to wait. If you decide to go after them yourselves, I can pay you a bounty from the city's treasury. In addition, you would have my personal thanks."

"That is what we had in mind, Jarl," Malg replied.

"Very well," she said. "I may not have any legionnaires to loan out, but I do have plenty of ships and some mercenaries who are growing fat in my hall." When she said this, a few men standing around the hall suddenly did everything they could to appear busy.

"We would be appreciative of any help you could provide, Jarl," Malg said.

"My Jarl," Horik Halfhand interjected. "These mercenaries are veteran fighters who are here for your protection."

"As are you, Horik," she reminded him, though he did not need it. "I have every confidence in you to protect me while they are gone. Besides, thanks to General Tullius, I also have three legionnaires stationed here for the same purpose. White Hall is getting crowded."

"Very well, Jarl," Horik relented.

Jarl Brina Merilis raised her voice and commanded, "All mercenaries who have been assigned to White Hall are now assigned temporarily to these mages for their fight against the Blood Horkers!"

One of the younger mercenaries seemed genuinely excited by the jarl's proclamation, but the command was met mostly by lackluster groans from mercenaries who had been happy with their cushy assignment. One of the more irritable mercenaries smacked the younger one for his exuberance and a tussle immediately broke out. A quick nod from the jarl and Horik Halfhand intervened, and the two unconscious mercenaries were dropped unceremoniously down the stairs and piled near the door.

"Your ship will be ready at sunrise," Jarl Brina said. "The mercenaries will be onboard as well. Feel free to dump them overboard if they cannot behave."

Malg thanked the jarl for her help and generosity.

"Thank you, mage," she replied. "I look forward to hearing the good news when you return."

Both Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers bowed and then stepped out of the White Hall into the cold Skyrim night. Malg stopped at the road leading back to the end and looked out over the Dawnstar's cove. The merchant ship being loaded up was now gone, leaving the inlet empty of ships. The jarls ships must have been anchored offshore somewhere out of sight.

"How would you like to go for a walk?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked. "The sun sets early, and I am not tired."

Malg nodded and followed Wiggles-Her-Fingers down to the shoreline.

"The water is beautiful," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

Malg did not answer. The water was nice looking, especially in the moonlight, and he listened to the tiny waves lapping at the icy shoreline as he stared out at the open water. Looking out on the Sea of Ghosts from Winterhold was the first time he had seen a body of water to large, but he had never gone down to where he could touch it. There was something about being next to something so immense. Malg knelt down to reach out past the ice and dipped his finger into the water. It was incredibly cold and stung his finger, but he didn't care. He followed the shoreline with his eyes off to the right, but then suddenly saw something alarming.

Malg stood up and squinted into the night. Walking along the shore next to a house with numerous red banners was the small silhouette of what appeared to be a child moving slowly toward them in the darkness. Malg rushed over to the girl who appeared to be completely fine despite the bitter cold, though her skin was as pale as the moon itself.

"Are you alright?" Malg asked the girl.

"I am so very cold all alone out here," the girl said.

"We need to get you inside somewhere," Malg said, looking over to the inn.

"Oh, yes, thank you, kind sir," the girl said, coming closer.

"Malg!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers hissed. "Move away!"

Malg turned back toward the girl who was already quite a bit closer than he had anticipated. Taken aback by her speed and the strangeness of her form, he stepped away.

"Look at her eyes!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

The girl did indeed have peculiar eyes of a bizarre orange color which Malg had never seen before. They stared at him with a deep hunger that left him rather unsettled and seriously regretting not returning to the inn. The girl advanced on him fearlessly, and as she did, she smiled revealing short, sharp fangs. Vampire! A string of flagrant curses shot through Malg's head. He had never seen a vampire before, but he had heard tales of the evil blood-suckers who lurked in the darkness waiting to feed on the blood of men or mer. Immediately Malg attempted to defend himself from the encroaching she-leech by hardening his skin, which turned glossy black just before the creature leaped at him. The force of her attack wrenched Malg's staff from his hand and knocked the large orc to the ground. The two wrestled for a time before the vampire managed to slip his grip and bit down hard on the underside of his wrist. Malg felt the sharp pinch of her fangs, but they were unable to penetrate his hardened skin. The little she-devil reeled back in surprise, and Malg slammed his fist into the side of her face, knocking her to the ground.

The vampire rolled to her feet in the snow, but her separation from Malg was the moment Wiggles-Her-Fingers had been waiting for. She hurled several bolts of lightning at the creature. The first arced over the little beast's shoulder, but the second hit her square in the chest, launching her backward into the water.

Malg got up, retrieved his staff, and retreated back to where Wiggles-Her-Fingers stood, scanning the water for any movement. Suddenly, the little monster was standing in the water before them, her wet hair sticking in long strands to her sallow skin. She glared menacingly at the two mages, her eyes ablaze in unnatural hunger. Malg slung a paralysis spell at the vampire, but the little monster sidestepped the green orb and attacked again. This time her target was Wiggles-Her-Fingers, who was quickly overwhelmed by the little she-devil's ferocity. Before Wiggles-Her-Fingers could react, the vampire had sunk her fangs into the Argonian's neck. She cried out in pain, and Malg swung his staff as hard as he could, catching the little beast in ribs. The blow broke ribs and sent the vampire rolling through the snow once again. She leaped to her feet, but Malg followed up with several discharges from his staff, catching the creature each time and knocking her back to the ground.

Behind the smoking form, Malg saw guards running along the shoreline and down the hill toward them, but he was not taking the chance that the vampire would get back up. He kept unleashing bolts of lightning from his staff until the guard was able to surround the creature. When the staff was empty of charges, the guards set to work, chopping and hacking at the abomination until there was nothing left but a charged and dismembered corpse.

Once, he was sure that the creature was no more, Malg turned back to Wiggles-Her-Fingers who lay groaning in the snow. He picked her up and called to one of the guards, "Where is the alchemist?!"

The guard waved for him to follow and led them over to the Mortar and Pestle. Banging on the door, the guard called out to the proprietor, "Frida! Open the door! We have an emergency!"

A few moments later, an elderly woman came to the door holding a candle. "What is it, Carsten?" she asked. "What happened?" Her eyes opened wide when she saw Wiggles-Her-Fingers in Malg's arms, blood oozing from the wound in her neck.

"There was a vampire attack, Frida," Carsten replied. "Can you help her?"

"Of course, of course!" the old woman said, waving them inside. "Lay her down on the bed and put pressure on that wound. If she's infected, it won't bleed out of her."

Malg did as he was instructed. Wiggles-Her-Fingers was already unconscious, and her breathing was labored. He laid her in the bed, turned her onto her side, and pressed the clean cloth Frida had given Carsten on their way to the bed.

Frida appeared a moment later with a healing potion. "Get this down her throat," the alchemist said. "It should stop the bleeding and help close the wound."

Malg tilted Wiggles-Her-Fingers' head back and gently poured the thick red liquid down her throat. She coughed a little at first but then started to swallow the elixir. Instantly, the wound began to clot, and the wound quickly scabbed over and started to close. However, the color did not readily return to Wiggles-Her-Fingers' face. The Argonian opened her eyes, but she was having trouble speaking.

"She has been infected by the creature," Frida said. "I need to get another potion." The alchemist returned shortly with a potion in an opaque red bottle and softly pushed the two men out of the way. "This will not taste good, dear," she told Wiggles-Her-Fingers. "But I need you to swallow all of it, alright?"

Wiggles-Her-Fingers nodded weakly, and the alchemist tilted the bottle to her lips. Malg watched as his friends drank the alchemist's concoction. He could tell by her face that it must taste vile, but she swallowed every drop from the bottle.

"Good girl," Frida said. "Now just relax. Let the medicine do its work."

Frida motioned to Carsten and Malg, and the two men followed her a short way away. "She should be fine in a few hours," Frida told them.

"Glad to hear it," Carsten said. "Unless there is anything more, I will take my leave."

Malg thanked the guard for his help, and Carsten left the alchemist's shop.

"Thank you for saving her," Malg said to Frida.

"I am just glad I could help," Frida replied. "She is a strong girl. With the elixir's help, she will be fine. Do you want to stay with her?"

Malg nodded.

"Very well," Frida said. "Stay the night. If there is any change, especially if her scales start to lose their color again, wake me, but I don't suspect there will be any problem."

Malg thanked her again and then sat down beside his friend. Wiggles-Her-Fingers was already asleep and snoring lightly, so Malg made himself as comfortable as possible. Over the next hour, her scales regained their original luster and returned to a healthy shade of green. Malg relaxed against the wall, relieved to see his friend recovering, and soon he was snoring right along with her.


	3. Part 3: Shadows on the Sea

**Malg the Magnificent**

 **Part 3:** _Shadows on the Sea_

When the sun rose the next morning, Wiggles-Her-Fingers was feeling much better than she had the night before. She did not remember much after the vampire had latched onto her throat, only that she felt cold and somehow strangely detached. It was unnerving, the idea that such a monster had tried to feed on her, seen her as prey, as food. The sensation of being fed upon was unnerving. She had no desire to relive it and so tried as best she could to think on something else.

Malg opened his eyes to see her standing at the window overlooking the cove. "Are you still you?" he asked.

"The morning sun feels warm on my scales," she replied. "I do not think that the taint persists." Wiggles-Her-Fingers turned to look at her friend. "It was foolish of you to stay here with me," she said. "If the potion had not worked, you might have been in danger."

"I have a lot of blood," he said. "You would have had a difficult time drinking all of it."

Despite herself, Wiggles-Her-Fingers let out a raspy giggle.

"Seeing as how you have recovered, I think we can be on our way," Malg said, pushing himself to his feet. "The Blood Horkers still need to pay for your brother's death."

A hard glint replaced the jovial gleam in the Argonian's eyes. "That they do," she agreed. "I will say here for the moment, Malg. I need to thank the alchemist for her work and settle with her. The jarl's ship is waiting in the harbor. If you would go ahead tell them to make ready, we can be off sooner."

Malg nodded and made for the door.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers called to him once more as he left the room, "Malg?"

He grunted.

"Was the vampire killed?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied. "Nothing remains of it."

She nodded, and he left.

It was a bright, clear morning in Dawnstar. Soft snow still covered the ground in a powdery, white blanket despite the warming rays of sunlight that tried in vain to reveal the stony ground beneath. A gust of wind blew in from the east, kicking fine bits of white powder all over the helm of Malg's black robes. He turned his face away, hiding it from the gale and looked to find the ship Wiggles-Her-Finger said would be in the harbor. It was there, tied up to the dock as members of the crew were loading the last few crates on board.

Malg walked around the water and up to the dock. He had never been on a ship before, and he was looking forward to the experience. The big orc walked out onto the pier but soon found himself feeling odd as he watched the motion of the water against the wooden post just below his feet. Disoriented, he fell to his knees on the pier. He managed to lift his eyes from the water and scanned the area around him, desperately trying to locate whoever had cast the spell, but all he could see were crewmen and a few of the mercenaries watching him with amused looks on their faces. The strange curse, however, was suddenly and inexplicably gone.

Malg continued to look around for a few more moments, unsure of what had happened to him. He had had enough experience with the school of illusion to know that just because you could not see an attacker did not mean there was none. Perhaps the shadowy assailant did not realize just how ineffective his witchery had been, and Malg took his opportunity, leaping to his feet and sprinting to the ship as fast as he could. The moment his foot hit the deck, the unfamiliar shift of the ship on the water sent the orc lurching, first backward and then forward, as he tried to keep his balance. Ultimately, Malg managed to keep his feet under him by grabbing the ship's gunwale.

"Where is he?!" he cried out in confusion.

The mercenaries, who up to this point were enjoying the show the orc was putting on, suddenly looked around. Several alarmed "who?" and "what?" responses from the mercenaries as they jerked their heads around, looking for some mysterious culprit. Malg ducked below the side of the ship for cover, desperately clinging to the wooden frame to steady himself, as several members of the crew and mercenaries took cover behind various crates and structures of the ship.

"What happened?!" one of the mercenaries yelled.

"I was hit by some spell!" Malg shouted back. "There is an illusionist here somewhere! I cannot see him. He hit me with something on the pier, and when I reached the ship, he nearly took my legs out from under me!"

The mercenary looked back at the orc, trying to decide if the mage was serious. Malg was keeping his head down and looking frantically around the ship for any sign of magical concealment. The mercenary stood up and made a small hand gesture that brought the rest of his fellows out from their cover. Members of the crew were still hiding, unsure of what to do as Malg attempted to convince the men to take cover again.

"What are you doing orc?" the mercenary laughed.

Malg looked at him in confusion, but he refused to give up his cover. "Get down!" Malg cautioned. "He might attack again!"

Some of the crew and the other mercenaries, who up to this point had been trying to locate the perpetrator, had begun to gather around the orc who was still maintaining an iron grip on the ship's gunwale.

"You have never been on a ship before, have you, orc?" another mercenary asked.

"No," Malg admitted. He recognized the man as one of the scuffling mercenaries in the jarl's hall, but he was far too focused on the soldiers' lack of battle prudence to care.

Several of the men swore, but most just laughed as they returned to whatever they had been doing before the crazy orc had run onto their ship. The Nord mercenary who had first questioned Malg gave a somewhat disgusted look and said, "It's not a bloody spell, mage. Once you get used to the way the water moves, you'll be fine." He offered his hand to Malg, who took it, and the Nord hauled the unsteady orc to his feed.

Malg leaned heavily on his staff as he took his first few unsure steps. "This does not feel right," he said.

The mercenary shrugged, "Get used to it, or you're going to be miserable all the way to Japhet's Folly. I'm Harik. You can relay your orders for us through me, understand?"

The ship shifted on the water and Malg groaned. His stomach felt as if it was trying to float up and out of his mouth and then suddenly dropped back down into his gut. He felt weak all over as his eyes crossed, and then he was grabbed roughly back his robes and dragged over to the side of the ship.

"Look at the horizon!" Harik ordered.

Malg did as he was told and looked out of the ocean to where the sea met the sky. It was stable, unmoving, and as his eyes focused on the steady line, the sick feeling in his gut began to subside.

"Are you gonna live?" Harik asked.

After a moment, Malg replied, "Yes, thank you."

"Just remember," Harik continued, "If you're gonna lose it, lose it into the sea. You don't have to live with the fish."

Harik left Malg at the side of the ship gazing into the distance, terrified of taking his eyes off the horizon, and wondering just how long the voyage to Japhet's Folly would be. After some time, his stomach was no longer threatening to empty itself, and he was willing to release is grip on the gunwale. With a little bit of experimentation, Malg realized that he was able to keep himself together and walk around on the deck of the ship as long as he kept his eyes firmly focused on the horizon.

"Master Malg!" a voice called from behind him.

Surprised, Malg spun around and instantly regretted it. His stomach lurched, and it took quite a bit of effort to swallow it back down.

"Are you ready to leave?" the voice called again.

Malg looked up toward the voice and saw the captain standing on the quarterdeck. Malg looked back out to the horizon. "Is Wiggles-Her-Fingers onboard?" he asked.

"Aye!" the captain replied. "She is below deck!"

Malg nodded to the captain, who then began barking orders to the crew. The men scrambled to their posts and made ready to disembark. Malg took the opportunity while the ship was still relatively stationary to make his way across the main deck and down into the crew quarters below. As he descended creaky, wooden steps to the lower deck, the morning light disappeared except for the single column that shone down through the open door. Creaks and knocks echoed through the surrounding blackness, but Malg could not see a thing. He groped through the darkness, stubbing his toe and running face first into a hammock, which drew the ire of the sleeping crew member, before finally finding a strong wooden post to hang onto. The ship rocked in the water. Malg braced himself for the upcoming wave of nausea, but it never came. Malg continued to hug the post, his new friend, with all his might, struggling to keep the contents of his stomach where they were.

A moment later, Malg heard a familiar voice and felt the touch of a scaled hand on his. "Malg? Are you alright?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

As his pupils continued to dilate, he was able to make out her reptilian features and eventually saw the concerned expression on her face. He nodded slowly. The sound of her voice and the sight of a familiar face was comforting, despite his situation.

"Is it the sea?" she asked. "Are you sick?"

He nodded again.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers smiled. "That can be fixed," she said. She reached out with both hands, which had started to glow the characteristic golden glow of restoration magic. She placed a hand on each side of Malg's head, and soon he felt a warm sensation flowing into his ears. Moments later, the weakness had left his body, and he felt stable once again.

It was only once his body had been relieved of the infirmity that Malg realized his eyes were closed. He opened them and saw Wiggles-Her-Fingers staring into his eyes smiling. "Better?" she asked.

"Yes," Malg replied. "Thank you."

"Good," she said. "Come with me."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers grabbed him by the wrist and started leading him through the lower part of the ship. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, Malg could see that the ship's lower level was much bigger than he had originally thought. The vessel's ribs reached out wide to each side leaving a vast amount of space for numerous barrels and crates Malg guessed were filled with food, mead, beer, and whatever supplies a crew like this would need while they were at sea. Wooden posts, like the one he had only just recently held onto for dear life, were spread around the area, some holding the ends of the hammocks of sleeping crew members. He saw lanterns hanging from some of the posts as well, but they had been snuffed, likely to keep the area dark enough for the ship's night shift.

"Why are you down here?" Malg whispered, trying to be polite to the sleeping crew members.

"It's nice enough down here," Wiggles-Her-Fingers answered. "And I thought we could use a quiet place away from the crew to work out how we will invade an island. Did you speak to the captain?"

Malg shook his head, "Only the mercenaries."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers led him into a small room separated from the larger space by walls of wooden slats. Inside were three or four chairs and a rough sanded wooden table. Against some of the walls were dressers and cabinets, and a bed with an old, straw mattress took up space in the corner. Wiggles-Her-Fingers lit a large oil lantern hanging from a nail in the corner opposite the bed with a small gout of flame from her finger. She winced and swore under her breath.

Malg chuckled, "Forget how to cast spells?"

"Better than forgetting how to walk," she retorted, irritably, as she took care of her burned finger.

Malg flopped himself down on the bed's straw mattress sending bits of dust flying out in all directions and leaned back against the wall. The pillow was also filled with straw that poked out through the loosely woven cotton fabric, not the most comfortable, but far better than sleeping on the floor of the hold.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers grabbed one of the chairs and pulled it up to the table. "I think we need to decide on our plan of attack," she said.

"Agreed," Malg replied. "We should be fast. The quicker the attack, the better, the less chance they will have to mount any kind of defense."

"What if we are outnumbered?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked. "We do not know how many pirates there are, and if they have mages, it will be even more difficult."

Malg grunted and scratched at his unshaven face. "Perhaps," he conceded. He had not considered the possibility that the Blood Horkers might have numbers on their side. In fact, if they control their own island, they might have up to an entire functioning village concealed on that chunk of land right off the coast. Malg thought about it for a moment. "How is your illusion?" he asked.

"Not terrible," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "Why?"

"Has anyone ever tried to make a ship invisible?" Malg asked.

Wiggles-Her-Finger stared at him incredulously. "Even if that was possible," she said. "It would take an absolute prodigy in the illusion school, someone even better than Drevis, to pull it off. However, I think you are going in the right direction. If they outnumber us, stealth is a far better approach than storming the beaches. We just need to figure out how."

"Let me think," Malg said. "It was not too difficult to sneak out of the college. I just had to wait until people were not looking."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers gave Malg a pitying look, but he never noticed it.

"We could sail in at night," he said. "It is not as good as being invisible, but it will be better than during the day."

"True," Wiggles-Her-Fingers nodded. "And if we come around the back of the island, away from where ever they have their ships, they may not see us coming at all."

"Sounds like a good plan," Malg agreed.

"There is still the matter of how to use the mercenaries, though," she said. "I have never commanded people in battle. I would not even know what to say to them."

"That is not a problem," Malg said. "Harik can command the mercenaries." He thought for a moment and then continued, "It might even be better that way. They could attack directly and help clear the way for us."

A mischievous smile slowly appeared on Wiggles-Her-Fingers' face. "That sounds like a very good plan, Malg," she complimented him. "I think it will work. We just need to make sure the captain is able to make a nighttime approach of the island."

"Then let's go tell him," Malg said, standing up from the bed.

"We do not have to go just yet," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "The winds are against us, and we will not even reach the island until tomorrow. We can tell him later tonight at dinner. Until then…" Wiggles-Her-Fingers trailed off as she walked over to a mead barrel and filled two mugs. She came back over to the table and slammed the mugs down. "Let's enjoy the time we have."

For the next few hours, Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers relaxed around the table enjoying the mead and telling stories. The mead was particularly good, and Malg enjoyed listening to Wiggles-Her-Fingers' tales of growing up near the city of Leyawiin in southern Cyrodiil and her decision to travel north to join the College of Winterhold rather than the Mage's Guild. It was a little difficult for Malg to follow. He had never been interested in politics. Even the minor amount of political maneuvering within his own stronghold was lost on him. Wiggles-Her-Fingers was telling him about some ongoing animosity between the Argonians, Dunmer, and Khajiit in the area she lived. Many Argonians, including some members of her family, were upset about the influx of Dark Elves who had moved to the area after the eruption of Red Mountain, and the Khajiit disliked the fact that so many other races were moving onto land they considered to be their territory. Apparently, the violence among these groups had been continually escalating, and the war with the Aldmeri Dominion had thrown the entire region into chaos. The Empire withheld necessary help and provisions from Leyawiin in favor of other cities, and many people speculated it was a deliberate punishment for Leyawiin breaking away one hundred and sixty years earlier. Many died and many more were left destitute. Wiggles-Her-Fingers was all too happy to have a reason to leave, but she feared Cyrodiil's Mage's Guild would not remove her far enough from her home, even if she went to a city other than Leyawiin. She was scared that the unstable peace between the Empire and the Dominion would break, and she would be sent to fight in a war that was "not her own," so she chose to make her way north to the College of Winterhold. It was only once she entered Skyrim that she found the province was itself embroiled in its own civil war. She considered going elsewhere, but she decided to stay when she learned that the College of Winterhold was committed to staying neutral in the war. When she finished her story Malg was more convinced than ever that politics were stupid.

That evening, Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers were invited to the captain's cabin to eat. Malg was quite hungry as he had hardly eaten all day, and his mind began conjuring all sorts of delicious foods laid out across the captain's table: salted pork, fresh fish, fruits, boiled crème treats, and piles upon piles of sweet rolls. His mouth began to water as he thought about what he wanted to eat first, but when the porter opened the captain's cabin door, he realized that all his anticipation had been in vain. There was indeed food on the table, and it was not what Malg had been expecting.

On a small, heavily stained wooden table was a bucket of cut potatoes and carrots with a stack of bread next to it. Malg barely noticed these, however, because his eyes were immediately drawn to the main course: three mudcrabs, piled together and nearly sliding off the large wooden platter in the center of the table. Malg eyed the boiled carcasses as the vacant, beady, black eyes stared back, wondering exactly how he should eat something that convincingly disguises itself as a rock and coming up with no conclusions.

"Welcome!" the captain greeted them as he got up from his desk. "I am Captain Thalrig. I apologize for not coming to see you sooner. College mages like yourselves are treasured guests to have aboard, but these kinds of voyages can be very demanding of my time." The captain was a large Nord, powerfully built, with a full, bushy beard styled with several braids and long, brown hair. His eyes were a deep brown with a joyful quality about them that matched his large smile. "Please, take a seat," he offered, pulling one of the chairs out for Wiggles-Her-Fingers.

"Thank you," she replied, smiling.

Captain Thalrig took the seat next to her, and Malg took the seat on the other side of the table, all the while keeping an eye on the crabs. If steam had not been rising off the shells, he might have expected them to hop up off the platter and any moment and start grabbing at them with their claws.

"Have you ever eaten mudcrab before?" Captain Thalrig asked.

Malg shook his head.

"Do not worry," he said. "They taste much better than they look. It just takes a bit of effort to get to the meat." As he said this, the captain unwrapped a cloth napkin sitting next to the platter to reveal three small steel wedge hammers. "It is rather easy once you get the hang of it," he continued. "The little buggers' shells are really hard, so you won't be able to crack them off with your hands. Take the wedge to the front like this." Thalrig took a small swing, wedging the hammer up under the front of the shell and jerked it upward. The shell cracked, and a little juice sprayed out onto the table. He spun his plate around with the expertise and confidence of having performed this maneuver countless times. "Then do it again to the backside," he explained as he repeated the swing, and as he jerked upward, the crab's shell popped off onto the table. "It's that easy," he said and tossed the shell into the empty bucket next to his plate.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers took the second crab from the platter and began trying to wedge her hammer up under the shell. Malg watched her attempt to open the giant sea bug for a moment before opting to load his plate down with potatoes and carrots. The simple combination of roots vegetables was wonderfully spiced, and Malg happily continued to stuff his face with them until he heard another crack and the clattering of another shell onto the table. The sound, however, was not what interrupted Malg's meal but the wet spray of crab juice across his face now dripping down onto his plate and food.

"Oh, Malg, I'm sorry," Wiggles-Her-Fingers apologized. "I did not know it would be that juicy." She jumped up with her napkin to clean off his face, but Malg waved her off and used his own.

"It's alright," he said.

"Don't you want to give it a try?" Captain Thalrig asked Malg. "It really is quite good."

Malg was still a bit wary of the creature. He liked fish just fine, but this was not fish. This was something altogether different, and he was not very keen on the idea of chowing down on bug meat. However, the other two seemed very pleased as they picked little chunks of white meat out from inside the shell and popped them into their mouths. After a brief deliberation, he decided he would try the crab. How bad could it be? He stood up and reached over to pick up the crab, but as he did, it seemed so much more likely that the crab was going to suddenly spring to life and clamp onto his hand with its jagged claws. He hesitated and instead retrieved the hammer. He took a deep breath and again reached out for the crab, but the feeling of sticking his hand into a spring trap immediately returned and he retracted his hand.

Trying to help, Captain Thalrig grabbed the crab, and thrust it out toward him, "Here you go, Malg. The largest one, just for you, big guy."

Malg swallowed hard maintaining his composure, but he no longer had a choice unless he wanted to explain to the other two why he was nervous to touch a dead bug. He grabbed the edge of the mudcrab's shell and plopped it onto his plate.

"Enjoy!" the captain said.

Picking up the wedge hammer, Malg went to work. Two strikes were all he needed, and there would be no doubt the thing was dead. Carefully avoiding the legs, Malg positioned the crab at the correct angle and readied himself for the strike. He drew back the hammer and swung. The wedge bounced off the edge of the crab's shell like a sword off plate armor. It had not even left a mark. He sighed and drew back the hammer for a second try. However, as Malg brought the hammer back, something was nudged causing the legs to slip, and the mudcrab's heavy claw fell open. Reacting out of pure terror as his meal moved, Malg dropped his hammer and leaped back from the table. Letting out something between a roar and a wail, the orc swung his now empty fist down onto the top of the crab's shell, opening a small crack from one side to the other.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers jumped up from the table, and the orc's outburst nearly had Captain Thalrig toppling backward in his seat. Pain shot through Malg's hand from the impact with the rock-hard shell, but that only amplified the situation as his assault upon the deceased crustacean caused all of its legs to contract. Wiggles-Her-Fingers gasped and Thalrig swore as Malg's skin became ebony, and he brought his fist down on the mudcrab's shell a second time. The impact shattered the carapace, sending large pieces of broken shell flying across the room. The two largest and heaviest pieces slid to each side, revealing the tender white meat within. Malg stood over the mutilated carcass breathing heavily and looking for any further signs of life from the mudcrab.

Silence fell over the room until Captain Thalrig began to laugh, a rich deep belly laugh. Slowly, Malg raised his head to look at the captain, confused by his reaction.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers was looking back and forth between her two companions trying to understand exactly what had happened. "Xuth, Malg! What is going on?!"

"I stand corrected, Master Malg!" Captain Thalrig laughed. "It is indeed possible to shell a mudcrab with just your hands!

"It moved," Malg said simply, in an attempt to explain what he had done.

"Well," Captain Thalrig replied. "I suppose that does happen sometimes. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you, but I can guarantee you it is quite dead, even more so now."

"Alright," Malg said. Consoled by the captain's assurance, he sat back down in front of his mudcrab. He gingerly picked up the two large pieces of shell and dropped them into the bucket beside his plate. The meat did look tasty. He picked up the small fork and began to pick out chunks of meat from the body. He put the first one in his mouth, and he was surprised by how much he liked it. It was soft and sweeter than he expected it to be. He grabbed each of the large claws, broke them open, and sucked out the succulent meat within. Surprisingly, the crab became his favorite part of the meal, and after filling up on every bit of meat he could fish out of the crustacean's shell, he was too stuffed for anything else.

The next afternoon, Malg and Captain Thalrig stood at the rail of the quarterdeck studying the layout of a large island several hundred meters of the starboard side of the ship. Much of the near side of the island was covered in ice, and thick sheets of sea ice floated in the surrounding waters.

"Is that it?" Malg asked.

"I believe so," Thalrig replied, lowering his telescope. "When the Blood Horkers killed the Argonian, they fled east. Jarl Merilis ordered us to give chase, and we nearly caught them. We were catching up to them until they passed Winterhold and made for the Serpent's Stone. It was strange. A mist settled on the water, making it nearly impossible to see, but they never slowed. We had to turn back. It was too dangerous to continue the pursuit. The only way they could have continued at that speed was if they knew that place like their own home. After searching the area, this is the only island big enough to support a band of pirates. It's also the only one with a dock in good repair, so I'm betting you're going to find those brigands somewhere here, likely up in the towers at the top."

"Good," Malg said. "We will wait for evening, then."

"I suppose you have a plan?" Thalrig asked.

Malg nodded, "Somewhat, but I need to know if there is a way up that slope other than from the dock."

"It's possible," Thalrig answered. "There is a cave right at sea level around to right from the dock." He pointed, but the ship was too far away for Malg to have any hope of making it out. "They might unload goods there as well," the captain surmised. "But it is equally as likely that the cave is just a cave."

"I see," Malg said.

"I have a solution for you," a voice said from behind them. It was Harik. He had walked up so quietly behind them that neither Malg nor Captain Thalrig had noticed.

"What is it?" Malg asked.

"I have a couple of very good scouts," Harik said. "They could find out if the cave is a dead end or not."

"Are they as quiet as you?" Captain Thalrig asked.

"Oh, Captain," Harik smiled. "They're better."

"Can they be back by this evening?" Malg asked.

Harik nodded.

"Send them," Malg ordered.

Harik nodded again and left to find his men. The two men, a Dark Elf called Giras and a wiry-looking Breton called Wilkes, returned just after sunset with the news that the cave did indeed lead up into the bottom level of one of the stone towers.

"It looks like the ice collapsed and took some of the tower wall with it," Wilkes said. "They don't seem to have any plans to repair it anytime soon."

"Anything else they should know?" Harik asked.

Giras shrugged, "There are some mudcrabs in the cave."

"Alright then," Harik said. "What do you want from us, mage?"

Malg's mouth had begun to water at the mention of mudcrabs. He briefly entertained the notion of grabbing the crustaceans on the way out, but he quickly put it to the back of his mind. It was not the time to be thinking about food. "I will get Wiggles-Her-Fingers," he said. "Then we can go over the plan."

Harik nodded.

Malg walked over to the stairs leading down from the main deck and called down to Wiggles-Her-Fingers. She quickly emerged from the shadows, her facial scales reflecting the faint, pale light of Masser and Secunda. "Are you ready?" Malg asked.

"Very ready," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "Have you told them the plan of attack?"

"Not yet," Malg said. "I wanted us all here first. Harik, we want you and your men to attack from the dock. Do not worry about making quick progress to the top. I just need you to get their attention and keep it. Wiggles-Her-Fingers and I will try to sneak into the tower through the cave with Giras and Wilkes. If we are fortunate, we will cut the head off the snake before it knows we're there."

"Very well," Harik said.

"I cannot get the ship right up to the cave, Malg," Thalrig said. "However, the four of you could take one of the boats." I will wait here until you land at the cave, and then we will make for the dock."

"That'll work," Malg replied.

Captain Thalrig gave orders to some of the crew, and soon the ship's oars were being quietly dipped into the water. "The crew will drop the boat for you. Good luck. I hope to see you back here soon," Captain Thalrig said and then ascended the steps to the quarterdeck.

Once the boat was dropped, the scouts climbed down the rope ladder and held it steady for the two mages. Wiggles-Her-Fingers descended the ladder almost as swiftly as they did, but Malg had some trouble keeping his balance on the rungs. At one point, the ladder swung out nearly horizontal. Giras quickly hopped out of the way, expecting the orc to fall the last several feet into the boat, but Malg held on to the ladder as it swung around wildly, eventually making it to the bottom.

Once everyone was onboard, Wilkes grabbed the oars and began rowing bringing the boat around. Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers got as low as they could in the boat, and Giras went to the front. The Dark Elf drew his sword and used the blade to push the large chunks of sea ice out of the boat's way.

"How did you two get over to the cave earlier?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked Wilkes.

"We walked on the ice," Wilkes answered.

"Seriously?" she asked. "That seems like it would be nearly impossible to keep your balance."

Wilkes continued to row the boat. "Difficult, but not impossible," he said. "The salt makes it bendable, so it will flex under your foot."

"Flexible ice?" Malg asked.

Wilkes nodded. "Seems strange, don't it?" he asked. "I thought so, too."

Giras made a nearly inaudible sound at the front of the boat. Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers looked first at him and then at each other, confused.

"Quiet now," Wilkes whispered. "We are getting within earshot. Don't need to give the buggers any warning, eh?"

Malg shook his head. He pulled his hood up over his head and did his best to stay as quiet and as small as possible for the rest of the trip. Wiggles-Her-Fingers huddled next to him, trying to do the same. The oars now hardly made a sound as Wilkes lowered them into the water and propelled the boat forward. Even the lifeboat itself seemed to move more quietly through the water, and soon they arrived at the sea cave. Wilkes motioned to Malg, and the two of them hauled the boat up inside the cave.

"There we go," Wilkes whispered. "Can't let are way out float off."

Once the boat was secured, the Breton whipped his hand up and several bluish-white sparks flew up like a fountain from his open palm. They fell around him and settled in a bluish haze around his feet. The Breton winked at the shocked mages and then scampered after the Dark Elf who was already making his way through the cave. Wiggles-Her-Fingers smiled and crept quietly after him. Malg watched as his friend deftly navigated the craggy structures of the cave and decided he better hurry if he did not want to be left behind.

Malg hunched down and tiptoed as quietly as he could after his companions. All seemed to be going well at first until the rough ice crunched loudly under his foot. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide in shock. Wilkes and Wiggles-Her-Fingers slowly turned to look at him. Embarrassed, Malg mouthed, "I'm sorry." Wiggles-Her-Fingers attempted to tell him that it was fine, but he could not understand what she was trying to say. Wilkes looked up ahead and satisfied that the sound had not given them away, shrugged and motioned them forward.

Malg was very careful from that point on to look everywhere he placed his foot. He did not want to ruin everything before Harik and the other mercenaries had an opportunity to engage and draw the pirates outside. The others had moved farther up into the cave out of sight. Malg did not like being the slow one, but he persisted and kept moving. Several more steps went perfectly well for the orc until his foot touched a bit of water on the ice and slid. Malg instantly felt the slide and tightened the muscles the muscles in his legs doing everything he could to keep them together, but one had found solid purchase on a bit of snow while the other found nothing on the slick surface of the wet ice. A long line of swear words shot through Malg's head like a bolt of lightning, and he stuck out his staff as a last-ditch effort to avoid falling. It failed, and the orc tumbled to the icy floor. He tried to collect himself only to look up and see Wilkes staring down at him. He motioned to Malg something to the effect of, "What's wrong?" but Malg could do nothing but shrug in response. The Breton helped him back to his feet but then motioned for him to wait a moment. Malg did as he was told. The Breton waved his hand, and the bluish haze settled around Malg's feet. The Breton cast the spell again on himself, and the two were off through the cave.

Malg found it infinitely easier to keep up with the others now that Wilkes had muffled the sound from his feet. The two of them passed a couple of dead mudcrabs which looked to have been dispatched with surgical precision. The creatures were laying in pools of their own blood without even having moved to defend themselves. Up ahead, the warm glow of torchlight shone through the breach made in the tower wall the scouts had reported earlier. Wiggles-Her-Fingers sat crouched on one side while Giras was peering into the opening. The Dark Elf signed something back to Wilkes, who nodded and motioned for Malg to proceed.

Once they were all together, Wilkes whispered directly into Malg's ear, "Giras will go first. You and the Argonian will follow him but keep a good distance back. I will keep to the rear. If he raises his hand, stop until he waves you forward."

Malg nodded, and the Breton went over to give Wiggles-Her-Fingers the instructions. Then Wilkes cast his muffling spell on Giras, and the elf proceeded into the tower.

Malg followed a few feet behind Giras up the dimly lit stairs. It may have been his imagination, but with the help of Wilkes' spell, the Dark Elf's mere presence seemed to add to the silence of the tower rather than take from it. It even seemed to Malg as if the Dunmer was sliding over the stones rather than actually stepping upon them, as silent as the surrounding shadows.

Giras stopped at the first corner, signaling for a stop. Malg obeyed, and the Dunmer disappeared around the corner to the right. Malg listened. He thought for a moment that he heard something like a gurgling, but it was quickly gone. Giras appeared again and motioned for him to follow as the Dark Elf went left and up the twisting tower steps and passed a large gate trap. As Malg followed Giras, he looked down the dead-end passageway to the right. Pushed up against the wall was the corpse of one of the Blood Horkers, a terrible gash inside of his neck and blood pooling around his legs.

Malg continued to creep along behind Giras, who never slowed, leaving a trail of bloody corpses in his silent wake, until he opened the door to a long hallway. Malg heard the voices of several men congregated in the room at the far end. Giras waited for Wiggles-Her-Fingers and Wilkes to catch up before he pointed down the passageway. "We will take them by surprise," the elf said. "They sound drunk, so I doubt they will put up much of a fight. Dispatch them quickly, and we'll move on."

"We need to find out which one of them killed my brother," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

"If we kill them all," Giras replied. "We will have found him."

Wilkes reapplied his muffling spell to each of them, and they continued down the corridor, staying as close to the walls and possible. Malg went last, keeping his distance, his staff ready in case the pirates their approach. He need not have worried, however, as the pirates seemed much more interested in listening to and correcting one of their own's loud and somewhat slurred version of a raid in which they had all apparently participated in.

"That's not how it happened, Stig!" one the men yelled. "The pipsqueak pissed himself first! That's why I was laughing when I stabbed him. He wouldn't have made a good slave anyway, too small."

"But we sure sold his goods to the reavers for a decent haul, eh?" Stig laughed.

"Where are we going next?" another asked. "Dawnstar? Solitude?"

"Irlof, you idiot!" the first one shouted. "It is too early to go back to Dawnstar, the guard is still looking for us!"

"Only for you!" Stig yelled. "Maybe next time you get a lust for blood inside a city, you stab yourself instead of ruining a good time!"

As the pirates were arguing, Wilkes and Giras took up positions on each side of the entrance with the mages behind them. It was going to be quick. The pirates would likely be dead before they knew why, but justice would have to be satisfied with that.

Wilkes drew the war ax from his belt and the two scouts entered the room. It was scary how quietly it happened. Giras' blade pierced the back of the first only seconds before Wilkes' ax split the skull of the second. The two dead bodies were already falling to the floor when the realization of the attack dawned on the faces of their companions. Stig and Irlof attempted to mount an attack but were instantly thrown to the floor by bolts of lightning from Malg's staff and Wiggles-Her-Fingers' hands. Irlof cried out in pain just before a second jolt from Malg's staff struck him in the chest. The pirate fell flat on the stones twitching, and Wilkes make doubly sure he would never rise from them again.

Giras was not as merciful. The Dark Elf stood back as Wiggles-Her-Fingers grabbed Stig and sent lightning coursing through the man's body.

"Who killed my brother?!" she hissed, after releasing him.

"What happened?" Stig asked, terribly confused. "Who in Oblivion are you?"

Wiggles-Her-Fingers sent another bolt of lightning through his chest, not enough to kill but enough to hurt and keep the captain debilitated. "Which one of you killed the Argonian in Windpeak Inn?" she asked again.

"Go take a leap, milk drinker," Stig replied.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers made to grab him again, but Wilkes put a hand on her shoulder and whispered something into her ear. She looked at the captain, then back at the scout and nodded. Wilkes stepped forward, and before Stig Salt-Plank could say another word, a green spark leaped from Wilkes' hand. The captain's body visibly relaxed and his eyes dilated slightly.

"Alright," Wilkes said. "Ask him again."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers knelt down in front of her prisoner. "Which one of your men murdered the Argonian in the Windpeak Inn in Dawnstar," she asked. "We are here for him."

Stig nodded. "You want Alding then," he said, pointing over to the corpse laying on the floor with its skull split in two. "He's a big pain in the backside, but he doesn't look so lively anymore." The captain sighed, "I knew that was going to come back to bite us. I should have left the sod there to hash it out with the guard on his own."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers stood up and began to walk away, and Wilkes stepped in to continue the questioning. "Who is the leader of the Blood Horkers?" he asked calmly.

"That would be Haldyn," Stig replied.

"Where is he?" Wilkes continued.

Stig shrugged, "Probably upstairs playing with some magic something or other. That Redguard don't care for nothing but magic. That's all he does when he ain't takin' a cut of our raids."

"Why not kill him and take over?" Wilkes asked.

"Do you want to take on a destruction mage?" Stig asked. "Because I don't. He'll blast you just for suggesting he don't deserve most of the haul for himself, kinda like your lizard just did."

Wilkes stood up and stepped away from the prisoner. Stig seemed like he was about to say something more when Giras stepped forward and thrust his sword into the captain's open mouth. Captain Stig Salt-Plank twitched violently, and then his wide eyes glazed over.

"Alright then, one crazy mage, and then we can go home," Wilkes said. "This would be more your territory, wouldn't it?" he asked looking at Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers. "Any thoughts on how we should approach it?"

Malg's brain was suddenly devoid of ideas. The scouts had led them the entire way through the tower, even passed the point of exacting vengeance for Watches-the-Waters' murder. He had not expected to be asked about anything at this point. He looked over at Wiggles-Her-Fingers to see his friend calmly considering the situation, her face hardly visible under the shadow of her hood.

"We should continue with stealth. That is our strength," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "If the mage is as consumed with his work as the pirate said, Giras may very well drop him before he knows we are there."

"And if he sees us?" Wilkes asked.

"Then you will die!" a voice called out from across the room.

Malg turned to see where the voice had come from. Under the large, stone arch leading to the stairs up to the top of the tower, stood a Redguard clad from head to foot in heavy, plate armor. He was old, with braided gray hair, but held himself with the confidence and vigor of a man half his age. Before Malg could react, the Redguard mage sent a bolt of lightning streaking across the room. The sound was terrible as the energy electrified the air around it. The bolt struck Giras' sword and funneled all the energy through the blade into the Dark Elf like a lightning rod. He stiffened, his body sizzling, and then fell limply to the floor.

The rest of the party scattered as Haldyn filled the room with lightning so powerful, the blasts were loosening the stones in the tower walls. Wilkes rolled under Stig's corpse and used the body as a shield to ward off the mage's attacks. Wiggles-Her-Fingers found other cover and Malg overturned a small table and mead keg to find a place away from the cacophony of violence the mage was now visiting upon the room.

"We need to do something!" Wilkes yelled as Stig's corpse took another blast of electricity.

Wilkes was right, Malg thought. He was trying to counter the mage's attacks, but he had lost his staff in the chaos and lightning strikes were keeping him huddled as low as possible behind the table. Even with casting these powerful spells, the mage did not seem to be tiring, and it would only be a matter of time before he tore through everything they were hiding behind. Malg took a deep breath and cast his own spell, one he was becoming more and more reliant on, and his skin darkened into hard ebony. With all his might, the orc mage picked up and hurled the table he was hiding behind at his enemy. Haldyn staggered backward as the hardwood slammed into his shoulder, but he did not fall. The Redguard smiled, a wicked cruel smile, at the failed attack, but it only lasted a fraction of a second as the keg of mead that followed it crashed into his chest.

Haldyn tumbled to the floor, cursing loudly, and Malg took the opportunity to charge. Unfortunately, for him, the Redguard was not truly injured by the impact, the steel plate absorbing the majority of it. Haldyn sat up and unleashed a bolt hitting the big orc directly in the chest. Malg cried out as pain coursed through his entire body. He was suddenly unable to move, and it felt as if he was being stabbed everywhere at once with blades of fire. As his vision cleared, he saw Haldyn streaming in terror with Wiggles-Her-Fingers latched onto his back, her claws hooked under the man's armpit and dug into his face. Haldyn, however, was ignoring the claws, instead attempting to keep the Argonian from sinking her four massive fangs, that Malg was quite sure she never had up to this point, into his neck.

This was no time to balk, however. The mage was still a threat, and Malg did the first thing he could think of. He paralyzed the man. As the green orb touched Haldyn, he dropped, stiff as a board, to the floor with Wiggles-Her-Fingers still on his back. With the mage no longer resisting, Wiggles-Her-Fingers pulled back, twisted around like a snake to the other side of his head, and bit into his unprotected flesh.

"Vampire!" Wilkes gasped. "You never said she was a vampire!"

"I-I didn't know," Malg stuttered.

Her hunger sated, Wiggles-Her-Fingers seemed to notice for the first time what was happening. She gasped and pushed the pale, blood-drained corpse away from her. She looked at Malg for some comfort. "Was I drinking his blood?" she asked meekly.

Malg nodded.

"Then the potion did not work," she murmured.

Malg noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and quickly stepped in front of Wilkes who was advancing on Wiggles-Her-Fingers with his ax raised. "That will not be happening," Malg informed the scout.

"Malg," Wilkes said. "We have far too many of those things in High Rock. They are a plague both here and in my homeland. Her hunger for blood will overtake her senses like it just did, and next time there might not be a crazy pirate mage for her to drain."

"I don't want to be a monster," Wiggles-Her-Fingers whispered. "But I don't want to die either. There is a way to cure this."

"Death," Wilkes said.

"No!" she cried out. "There is a mage in Skyrim who claims he can rid the body of this curse! I will go to him! I will do whatever it takes!"

Wilkes shook his head. "What if it doesn't work?" he asked. "What if the hunger overtakes you before that? Who will bear the wrath of your bloodlust vampire?"

"I will!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "I know what if feels like. I will not feed upon another human or elf. If I must I will feed on animals."

Wilkes lowered his ax. "I don't want to kill you," he said. "But I do not want you near me or anyone else. I also doubt Captain Thalrig would be too keen on welcoming you back aboard when he sees those eyes."

"You plan to leave us here?" Malg asked.

"Not you, Malg," Wilkes said. "But I do not see what else there is to do about her."

"Maybe it is what needs to happen, Malg," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "I do not want to hurt anyone."

"I am not leaving you!" Malg shouted. "There is another way. We just have to figure it out."

"I am not sure there is, friend," Wilkes said. "Not without risking the entire crew."

Malg hung his head.

"I will give you time to say goodbye, but do not linger," Wilkes warned. "I will take the boat. The ship is waiting at the dock, but it will not wait forever." Wilkes cast one more wary look at Wiggles-Her-Fingers. "I am sorry," he said. Then he left back down the hallway toward the cave.

Malg looked sorrowfully toward the tower on Japhet's Folly as the ship made ready to leave. He was glad that justice was served for Watches-the-Waters, but he wondered exactly how justice would be done for his sister. She did not ask to become a vampire, and she did not deserve to be left in such a remote and desolate place only to become more and more a monster. Malg bent down and grabbed the rope ladder. Looking around to make sure no one was paying him any attention, he tossed it over the edge.


	4. Part 4: Bitter Medicine

**Malg the Magnificent**

 **Part 4:** _Bitter Medicine_

Malg was coughing and hacking as he was half pulled up onto the rocky shore of Skyrim's northern coast. Growing up in the Dragontail Mountains, there had not been much opportunity for the orc to learn to swim, so when he was thrown into the Sea of Ghosts by a particularly unhappy crew, just making it to shore was terribly difficult. In fact, as he sputtered and gasped on the desolate shore, he was reasonably sure he never would have made it had it not been for his friend. They had been forced off the ship together when a few members of the crew, looking for a quiet place to drink and gamble, had found her hiding onboard. Malg had hoped to find mercy with Captain Thalrig, but the captain, as good-humored as any man Malg had ever met, became hard and cold at the mention of a vampire. Without a second thought, he had the entire group who had infiltrated the castle tossed overboard for fear of his crew being infected with the disease. Malg went quietly, knowing there was little he could say to change the captain's mind, but Wilkes cursed everything from the hull of the ship to the crow's nest and his former comrades-in-arms who were so willing to leave him to the captain's judgment without objection. He had a few specifically nasty words for Harik, who watched silently as the three of them were hurled over the side.

Malg sucked it a breath of cold air. He was very tired after struggling against the waves in robes that felt three times as heavy now that they were soaked with seawater, but he hauled himself to his feet. Wiggles-Her-Finger had already set about making a fire by piling up some large pieces of driftwood and sitting them ablaze. Malg walked toward the light, wanting nothing but warm relief from the wind's biting cold. He could hear Wilkes, still on a tirade and yelling a string of foul profanities out to an uncaring sea.

"Are you alright, Malg?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked when he pulled off his wet robes and hung them over a large branch near the flames.

He nodded, "Just cold. I'll be fine soon as the fire dries my robes."

"I'm sorry it happened like this," she apologized.

"It was always a risk," he said. "But I was not going to leave you there."

She smiled, "I'm going to go catch us some fish."

"You aren't cold?" Malg asked.

"I don't really feel the cold anymore," she said. "I do not know what that means for me ultimately, but another swim will be easy enough."

As Wiggles-Her-Fingers left for the water, Wilkes came stopping over to the fire. He glared at her as he passed but said nothing. He then turned his anger upon Malg, raising a finger and pointing across the flames at the mostly naked orc. "This is your doing, orc! What on earth were you thinkin'?! Nothin'! Your brain wasn't tickin', and now you got us thrown into the bloody sea!" Wilkes struggled with his sudden leather coat, grunting in frustration as he tried to free himself from its clutches. A few more colorful curses and it was off and hung on the large branch next to Malg's robes. "I know she was your friend, Malg," Wilkes began.

"And she still is," Malg interrupted.

Wilkes sighed. "What's the plan then?" he asked. "Are you going to hang around with the vampire until she decides you look tasty?"

"She won't try to feed on me," Malg said.

Wilkes scornful snort was somewhere between a laugh and sneer. "Not now maybe," he said. "It's disease, orc, not a lifestyle choice, and the infected do things they might not do otherwise. At some point, the bloodlust is going to cloud her senses, and she's going to go feral. Personally, I don't want to be around when it happens."

"What is your plan?" Malg asked.

"Not sure exactly," Wilkes admitted. "I suppose I'll find another mercenary band or maybe some bandits if I get desperate. There's a lot of call for a man with my skill set, but I'll tell you one thing. I won't be workin' for that ruddy Harik again after that display of loyalty. He just sits back and lets Captain Thalrig toss me over with you two just because I was with you when she turned? Bloody outrage!"

"I'm sorry it happened like that," Malg apologized.

"You're still a bloody fool, Malg," Wilkes said. "But at least you're loyal. That's more than can be said about my former company. Just be careful, alright? I'd hate to see that allegiance repaid in blood."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers returned to the fire with her catch. She flopped the three large salmon down on a nearby stone and began running her claws backward over the fish from tail to head. Scales began to fly off into the air. Wilkes watched every movement out of the corner of his eye as scales began to pile up on the rock, but he did not say a word. Soon all three fish were scaled, and Wiggles-Her-Fingers set them to roast over the fire. Her complexion had changed incredibly since the previous day. The shine was gone from her scales, and the bright, brilliant green had faded to a pallid, anemic hue. She looked sick, on the brink of death even, but she acted in perfect health, if not more subdued than normal.

Malg knew nearly nothing of vampires except what Wiggles-Her-Fingers had told him. The creatures were unheard of in the stronghold where he grew up, but now he found himself attacked by one of these dark, mysterious beings and the friend of another. Wiggles-Her-Fingers had herself called the thing a monster. Malg wondered how she felt now as she sat back away from the warmth of the fire.

"The fish look really good," Malg said.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers nodded, but she did not look away from the flames. That was the biggest change. Her eyes, which used to be nearly the same beautiful green as her scales once were, now burned with an otherworldly fire of their own.

Malg turned back to the fire, a mix of fear and pain cowing him, forcing him to look away from her. Was Wilkes right? Was she still his friend? "Nice and fat," he murmured.

Wilkes stood up abruptly. "I gotta take a piss," he muttered. Then he turned and walked off toward a craggy snowdrift.

Once the scout was out of earshot, Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked, "He does not wish to be around me anymore, does he?"

Malg shook his head.

"And what about you?" she asked.

Malg looked at her. She was still looking at the fire. "I do not know much about what happened to you," he said. "Maybe you will try to drink my blood. I do not know, but until you do, you are my friend and you are sick. That means I will try to help you find a cure."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers smiled. It was the first time Malg had seen her smile since she turned, and it was terrifying. Four enlarged fangs dominated the already toothy grin, and Malg had to shake off the shiver that ran up his spine as he beheld the monstrous weapons that were nearly as big around as his tusks and almost three times as long.

"I do not taste very good, though," he added quickly.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers' brow shot up. "How would you know?" she asked.

"I just do," he said, looking away. "All orcs taste bad."

Malg was taking the fish off the fire when he heard footsteps approaching in the snow. Wilkes had taken a bit longer than expected, but Malg had not cared. The tension between the scout and Wiggles-Her-Fingers was uncomfortable, to say the least, and he expected Wilkes to keep some distance until the man went his own way.

"Malg," Wiggles-Her-Fingers hissed.

"The fish is done enough," he said. "I'm hungry."

"Turn around," she ordered.

The warning in her voice was clear, and Malg spun around, nearly dropping the salmon. Wilkes was indeed walking toward them, but he was not alone. Grasping the wiry Breton from behind was a tall man of dark complexion. The stranger was keeping as much of his body as possible hidden behind Wilkes, but Malg could see the man's red turban and the beautifully curved scimitar sitting on his hip. The Redguard was strong, half carrying Wilkes by an arm firmly wrapped around the man's throat, and his eyes shifted like a predator between Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers.

"Isn't this cozy," the Redguard said.

"Let him go!" Malg snarled.

"That will not be happening quite yet, orc," the man replied. "Not until I determine whether you two are indeed the mages who sent my dear little Babette to the Void."

"Who?" Malg asked.

"Just a little girl out for a moonlit stroll," he said. "With a bit of a penchant for blood."

"The vampire," Wiggles-Her-Fingers hissed.

"Yes," the Redguard nodded. "And I see she has left her mark upon you in the process, Argonian. That must have been quite something. I have seen her hunt."

"I'm sorry," Wilkes gasped.

"You know who we are, now," Malg growled. "Either let him go or tell who you are and what it is you want."

He smiled a cruel wicked smile. "I suppose it would be rude not to introduce myself. I'm Nazir," he said. "Redguard, as I'm sure you've noticed, born of the sands of the mighty Alik'r. As for why I'm here, do you really believe you can kill a member of the Dark Brotherhood without any repercussion? We have a reputation to uphold, and I am damned sure not going to let the College of Winterhold or anyone else think they have one up on us. After I leave your corpses for the wolves, I have a legionnaire to take care of as well."

"Sounds like the Dark Brotherhood has been on a bumpy road as of late," Wilkes sputtered.

The Redguard tightened his hold around Wilkes' throat, and he winced noticeably. "It will be business as usual soon enough," Nazir whispered. Wilkes eyes suddenly widened, and Malg saw the tip of a dagger protrude out from the Breton's belly. Blood spurted from the wound, turning the pure, white snow a deep shade of crimson.

Nazir shoved Wilkes toward his companions. The scout tried to keep his feet, desperately pressing his hands against his gut, but it was of little use. He stumbled, weak from the loss of blood, but still trying to escape before his knees finally buckled, and he fell headlong into the snow.

Malg roared, his blood boiling even as Wilkes' stained the snow. He charged nearly naked away from the flames toward the smirking Redguard as Wiggles-Her-Fingers rushed to help their fallen companion. The orc's heart thundered in his chest as it pumped loads of adrenaline-laced blood to his straining muscles. Special proteins hardened the outer layers of skin cells even as the lower epidermal layers thickened with the influx of water. Fat cells drained themselves of stored energy, muscles swelled, and the chemicals released to his brain numbed any sense of pain or fear. Everything within Malg's body instantly began to function to push his body beyond the normal capacity of orcish physiology. It was something Nazir had expected and in fact, was banking on in order to lure the orc into a physical confrontation rather than a magical one.

The assassin's blade slid silently from its sheath. Death was in his eyes. He had fought orcs before, and he knew very well what happened during the rage. Cool rationality lost to brutal passion, and no matter how marvelous their adaptations were, thick orcish skin was no match for forged steel.

Malg leveled the fullness of his rage into Nazir, but at the last moment, the assassin slipped away slashing upward with his scimitar. The weapon cut a deep gash in Malg's chest as he grabbed hold of the Redguard's cloak. A primal scream escaped from the orc's maw as pulled back on the cloak. Nazir's eyes bulged as his brain was instantly denied blood flow and he found himself no longer able to breathe. However, the assassin stayed calm, reached with his dagger up over his shoulder and cut the cloak from around his throat. He fell to the ground, then took a quick gasp of air as he turned back toward the raging orc.

Malg lashed out at the assassin with his fists, but Nazir was far too agile. He quickly dodged the blows, grinning gleefully, which only further fueled the orc's fury. Eventually, Nazir sidestepped an overextended strike and drew his blade across Malg's thigh, slicing into the muscle. Malg barely felt the pain as blood ran down his leg. Nothing mattered except destroying his enemy. The wound in his chest was already beginning to clot, and soon the cut in his leg would as well. He spun on the assassin and roared into the freezing wind. Nazir met his maddened gazed with cool contempt and waved him on.

"Come, orc," Nazir called. "I will send you to the Void."

Malg howled and charged again, but as he did, he heard Wiggles-Her-Fingers' voice through the rage. "Malg!" she yelled. "You are a mage! What are you doing?! You're a mage!"

In that instant, his mind cleared enough to understand the danger he was in. The assassin was waiting for him, but the look on the man's face was not one of fear. He was a predator, hunting his prey, and Malg was running directly into the kill zone of this professional murderer. Nazir's scimitar was pulled back, poised to strike like the tail of a scorpion, he was looking to finish this confrontation for good. Malg, however, did not stop his charge. With a flick of his wrist, he released magic streaming throughout his entire body, and as Nazir thrust out with his scimitar, it hit cold, hard ebony.

The assassin's face blanched for a second before the entire weigh of the orc collided with him. Nazir landed hard on his back, dazed and unable to breathe, the air forced from his lungs by the terrible impact. Before he can regain his senses entirely, Malg in on top of him. Grabbing for another dagger, the assassin thrust it at the side of the orc's head in one last attempt to kill him, but Malg caught the assassin's wrist and squeezed. He felt the man's bones cracking, like small tree branches being crushed by a blacksmith's tongs.

Nazir grimaced and dropped the blade. He looked up at Malg and said, "Finish it, orc."

The words struck him like cold water. He did not want to kill anyone, but this man was an assassin. He had hunted them like for revenge or perhaps for fun. Nazir had nearly succeeded in killing him.

"Do it," Nazir repeated his plea. "Send me to the Void. If not, I will come back. I will kill you and your lizard friend just like that Breton!"

Wilkes! In his rage, he had nearly forgotten what had set it off. He had killed Wilkes! There was no cause for that, and there was no way Malg was going to let him go free while Wilkes lay cold and dead. Malg reached over and grabbed a nearby stone.

"Can't be bothered to do it with your own hands, orc?" Nazir asked. "Don't want to."

Nazir never finished the sentence as an ax split his face in two. Blood and other fluids sprayed out, covering Malg's chest and face. Surprised and disgusted by the bodily juices which had gotten in his mouth, Malg swore loudly, which was very much out of character for him, and began spitting. He grabbed two handfuls of snow and stuffed them into his mouth, trying desperately to wipe off his tongue. He shuttered, either from the cold or from disgust, and they looked over to where Nazir's corpse lay. Standing over the body was Wilkes, who was looking much better than he had only moments earlier.

"I thought you were dead," Malg said.

"Me too," Wilkes replied. "Come on, you need to get by the fire."

As Malg cleaned himself off with melted snow, Wilkes told him that the last thing he remembered before he collapsed, other than a crazed orc howling, was Wiggles-Her-Fingers grabbing hold of him and a warm, golden light. "She saved my life," Wilkes said looking over at Wiggles-Her-Fingers who was standing a small way away from the flames. He hung his head. "I wanted to leave her on the island, but she was still willing to save me. I'm not sure what else to say but that I'm willing to help."

"Help what?" Malg asked.

"Well, I assumed you two were looking for a way to fix this little situation," Wilkes said pointing to Wiggles-Her-Fingers. "I figured the least I could do is help out after you put me back together. Is that alright with you?"

Wiggles-Her-Fingers nodded, "We could certainly use you."

"Good then," Wilkes said. "Let me clean up my mess, and we can get on with our evening." Wilkes stood up. He picked out a nice, long stick and walked over to Nazir's body. He picked up the legs and dragged it over to the edge of the water. He was doing something with it for a while. Then he used the long stick to push it out as far as he could, and the body quickly sank below the waves.

"Alright, you said something about a cure?" Wilkes asked as he returned to the fire.

"No," Wiggles-Her-Fingers corrected him. "I know of a mage who claims to have a cure."

"What mage?" Malg asked. "Who is he?"

Wiggles-Her-Fingers shook her head. "I do not know him personally," she said. "I overheard some of the professors at the college talking about vampirism, mostly about how great it would be to live long enough to gain a true mastery of magic. I'm not sure how serious they were, but they mentioned a mage named Falion who used to teach there. They said he knew all about the curse, how to safely contract it and how to banish it."

"He is not still at the college, though," Malg commented.

"No," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "He moved to Morthal. We would have to look for him there."

Malg's eyebrow rose. "Where is Morthal?" he asked.

"I do not know," Wiggles-Her-Fingers admitted.

"West," Wilkes cut in. "Well, a bit south and west, o'er in the marshes. It's a terribly dreary place, wet, cold, not the kind of place you go setting up a homestead, but the Nords went and did it anyway."

"Where to the west?" Malg asked.

"Some ways past Dawnstar," Wilkes replied. "South of Solitude."

"It seems we have our guide," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

Wilkes nodded. "Let's just hope this Falion fella is still there and not chased out of town or something," Wilkes said. "You know how Nords are, not too happy about spells bein' cast too close to them."

"The ones at the college never seemed to mind," Malg said, questioning Wilkes' broad characterization.

"Those are mages, orc, like us, of course they don't mind," Wilkes countered. "I'm talkin' about the rest of 'em. Most Nords are afraid of magic. They don't really get it, and they get all in a tizzy about it."

"We were fine in Dawnstar as well," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

"Maybe you were lucky," Wilkes said. "It's just better if you don't go flaunting it around. They won't go off attackin' you for walkin' around in robes, but you will certainly hear it if you look like you're about to cast somethin', believe me."

"I suppose it is better to be safe," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied.

"Speakin' of that," Wilkes said. "You might want to wear that hood low over your face as well. I doubt the locals will be too keen on havin' a vampire traipsing around their town."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers looked almost embarrassed as she pulled her hood lower over her face. A pang of pity struck Malg hard as he watched his friend hide herself. She had not asked for this to happen to her, and she did not deserve to feel as though she had to hide herself from others. Malg was not sure yet exactly how dangerous his friend had become. Perhaps others would even desire to hunt other sentient beings to drain their blood, but he held out hope that Wiggles-Her-Fingers would not succumb to that urge with the innocent. He found himself staring at the fangs protruding from under the pale scales of her lips. How strong was that urge, though, and how much was she fighting it already?

The next morning, the trio set out across the snowy tundra toward Morthal. It was a difficult trek through deep snow and howling winds, but it was not Malg's first time in harsh weather. He just kept his ears open, his hood low, and kept pressing forward. Eventually, the group came upon the east-west road south of Dawnstar and put their backs toward the rising sun. It was still slow going, but not nearly as slow as it would have been trudging through knee-deep snow drifts out on the tundra. Eventually, the road turned sharply to the south, through the hills and around the frigid marshes between Morthal and the Sea of Ghosts. Malg was thankful for this. The cold was uncomfortable enough, and the idea of getting soaked again was not something he relished.

The group had just passed some old dwarven ruins when Malg heard someone shouting, "Hey! Stop! I know it's you!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers stopped and turned, and as Malg turned back to face whoever was silly enough to search them out in such terrible weather, he saw that Wilkes had already drawn his ax.

"Who is that?" Malg whispered to the scout.

Wilkes only gave him a confused look and a shrug. "How would I know?" he asked. "It's an Argonian, though. How about you ask an Argonian?"

"I do not know this one," Wiggles-Her-Fingers answered before Malg could ask.

"You!" the Argonian yelled again as he approached them and walked directly up to Wilkes. "You owe me money!"

Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers glared at Wilkes, but his confusion had only grown. He looked the strange Argonian up and down and then turned back to his companions. "Never seen him before in my life," he said.

"What?!" the Argonian hissed.

"It seems he disagrees," Wiggles-Her-Fingers commented.

Malg looked the Argonian over. His skin and scales were dark, charcoal grey. Malg had not met many Argonians, but those he had met were all various shades of green. This was not all that strange, however, as lots of orcs did not share the green skin color usually attributed to their race. What was strange to Malg were the dazzling color patterns on the Argonian's face. Perhaps the bright orange and purple markings were designed to warn others that he was venomous, or perhaps he was just a fancy Argonian, partial to bright colors and face paint. Malg could not tell, but when he tried to have a closer look, the Argonian jumped back, regarding him rather suspiciously.

"What do you want?" he asked Malg.

"Your name might help," Malg replied.

"I am called Deep-In-His-Cups," the Argonian answered.

"Why?" Malg asked. None of the Argonian names were particularly difficult to figure out, but Malg did not want to risk offending one that already seemed to be a bit off.

"I drink a lot," the Argonian said.

"I think we might've found our problem," Wilkes said.

"My problem is that you promised me a lot of money if I snagged this hat from the head of a bandit troop," Deep-In-His-Cups said as he threw an ugly, patchwork hat down at Wilkes' feet. "Now," he said. "You owe me 10,000 gold pieces."

"You've been sucking on the end of far too many bottles if you think I've been hauling 10,000 gold pieces around with me, lizard," Wilkes sneered.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers hissed.

"Sorry," Wilkes apologized. "Seriously, though," he said turning back to Deep-In-His-Cups. "What kind of pockets do you think I have sewn into this jacket?"

"You could have an enchantment on it," Deep-In-His-Cups replied.

"Really?" Wilkes sputtered. "Do you have any idea how much that much gold would weigh? My invisible mammoth would throw out his back trying to haul all that coin! What's wrong with you?!"

Deep-In-His-Cups looked back at Wilkes in bewilderment and then looked around for a few moments. Malg wondered if the confused Argonian might actually be looking for Wilkes' invisible mammoth. Then he seemed to snap back to and remember what he was doing. "Look," Deep-In-His-Cups continued. "I don't care where you stashed it. Just tell me where the gold is, and I'll deal with collecting it."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers groaned, and Wilkes stared back at Deep-In-His-Cups in utter disbelief. Malg was instantly suspicious. He had been taken in before by sneaky characters too many times, and he was determined not to have the wool pulled over his eyes again.

"I'm not sure I believe you?" Malg grumbled.

Deep-In-His-Cups returned Malg's suspicious glare with one of his own. "I'm looking to collect my due," he said. "This one and his friend promised me gold in exchange for sneaking into a bandit camp and stealing that hat. I want what I am owed!"

"What friend?" Wilkes asked.

"He is your friend," Deep-In-His-Cups reminded him. "The Breton in the black robes."

Wilkes groaned as a look of realization appeared on his face. "You mean Sam?" he asked.

"I do not know," Deep-In-His-Cups hissed. "All of your stupid names sound the same to me." The Argonian thought for a moment. "He seemed slippery, though. Not quite right."

"Well, we were drunk," Wilkes said. "What did you expect?"

Deep-In-His-Cups sneered, "I expect you to keep your word."

"I remember getting sloshed with Sam, but that's it," Wilkes said. "I don't remember promising you anything. Besides, I don't have that kind of coin. I couldn't pay you a tenth of that, even if I wanted to."

Deep-In-His-Cup's lips curled as a terrible hiss escaped through his pointed teeth. The snubbed Argonian lashed out with razor-sharp claws as Wilkes fell back, unprepared for the sudden show of aggression. He landed in the snow and fumbled for his ax, but as he jerked the weapon from his belt, a flash of green light made him wince. He glanced up at his attacker just in time to see the expression of fury frozen on the Argonian's face. After slashing at the Breton, Deep-In-His-Cups had pulled a mace from his belt with every intention of collecting in blood what he was unable to collect in gold, but now the heavy piece of steel was suspended motionless in the air above the man's head. Malg stood close by, a hand outstretched and a smug smile on his face.

"Not quick enough, Drinks-Too-Much," the orc muttered. Malg was silently congratulating himself on his little quip when he noticed the paralyzed Argonian start to tilt. At first, it was slow, but it quickly sped up as the weight of the mace brought the petrified lizardman down, face first into Wilkes. A long, creative string of oaths erupted from the Breton's mouth as he tried to fend off his rigid attacker. Kicking and squirming, he finally managed to free himself and scrambled to his feet. He drew his ax and was about to kill the helpless drunk, when Malg yelled, "Stop!"

"What?!" Wilkes growled. "The ruddy lizard tried to kill me!"

Wiggles-Her-Fingers wanted to protest again, but it was hardly the time.

"What if you made that deal?" Malg asked.

"Huh?" Wilkes seemed confused.

"Do you remember what you did that night?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

"No," Wilkes admitted, lowering his weapon.

"Then you might have struck that deal," Wiggles-Her-Fingers continued. "Should he die because he came to collect on it?"

"But I…" Wilkes attempted to argue, but Malg finished his sentence.

"You were drunk," Malg said. "You have no idea what you might have said or done."

"Exactly!" Wilkes exclaimed.

"Does not mean you aren't responsible for it," the orc continued.

"Oh," Wilkes said. He looked down at Deep-In-His-Cups and then put his ax back in the steel frog hanging from his belt. "I guess it would be wrong to kill him if he's telling the truth."

"Yes, it would," Wiggles-Her-Fingers agreed.

"Fine," Wilkes huffed. "Let's go."

Deep-In-His-Cups lay awkwardly in the snow, his mace pointing straight up in the air. Malg would have considered it comical had the Argonian not been trying to murder all of them. He flicked a second paralysis spell at the drunk reptile and turned to catch up with his companions who were already a growing number of meters ahead of him down the trail.

The party walked into Morthal early that evening. They saw a number of people standing outside what Malg assumed to be the Jarl's longhouse talking loudly and carrying torches, but they ignored them and entered the Moorside Inn to find a room for the night. The style of the inn was standard for those in Skyrim with a large central fire pit running up the common room, a cellar for mead and wine, and a couple of rooms for rent. Wiggles-Her-Fingers moved off into the shadows away from the fire, and Malg took care of renting a room from the older but still rather attractive Redguard innkeeper. She pointed them toward their room, and the three dropped off their gear before finding a table and ordering food.

"What will you have?" Jonna asked.

"Whatever is fresh off the fire," Malg answered. Both Wilkes and Wiggles-Her-Fingers agreed.

"Anything else?" she asked.

"A mead would be great," Wilkes replied.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked for red wine, but when she looked at Malg, the orc quickly shook his head, not wanting an accidental repeat of his experience in the Windpeak Inn. They were mostly quiet as they waited for Jonna to return. Wiggles-Her-Fingers seemed off in her own world, watching the door to the inn as if she was expecting someone she knew. Wilkes hopped over to the table next to them and laid down on the bench. There were no other patrons in the place, and other than Jonna and an orc plucking at a lute and humming off key, they seemed to be alone.

"So, what's the next move?" Wilkes asked.

"In the morning, we find Falion," Wiggles-Her-Fingers answered.

Wilkes grunted in understanding, then he turned toward her. "How are you feeling by the way?" he asked. "I imagine your situation comes with certain difficulties."

Malg thought Wilkes had phrased his concern about as delicately as possible and found his opinion of the Breton improving. Wiggles-Her-Fingers did not respond for a little while. She just kept staring at the door. Malg cleared his throat, and the guttural, phlegmy auditory assault jogged their companion from her thoughts.

"I can feel the hunger," she whispered. "It is nothing I cannot control, but it is strange. When I ate the fish, my hunger was satisfied, but this hunger was not. It is very unnerving."

"We will take care of this," Malg said. "It is only temporary."

Wilkes was not so certain, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Malg wanted to say something else to comfort his friend, but he could think of nothing except hackneyed platitudes. He was grateful when Jonna returned with the food a few moments later so he could escape the awkward silence. It was a good meal. Jonna was a cut above the standard tavernkeeper, and Malg enjoyed the generous portion of roasted meat and fresh bread on his plate. It seemed odd that a place with such good food was so empty. He happily bit off mouthfuls of flesh and soaked up the juices with the bread. Afterward, drowsy from an overly full stomach, he gave his sincerest compliments to Jonna and retired with the others to their room.

Wilkes and Wiggles-Her-Fingers were sitting at the small table in their room talking about something. It was probably important, so Malg tried to focus on the discussion, but a small voice in his head kept reminding him of how cozy the bed was and how soft the furs looked. He was on the bed and laying down before he realized it, and the moment his head hit the pillow, it was all over.

A rough jab in the ribs woke Malg the next morning along with the comment, "You snore like mating horkers." Malg shot up out of bed to see Wilkes standing over him. The scout continued, "You know, there was a point at which I was seriously concerned about whether you would make it through the night, but after a few hours of your log sawing, I considered puttin' an end to the enterprise myself."

"Where's Wiggles-Her-Fingers?" Malg asked.

"Not sure," Wilkes replied. "She left before the sun went up. I didn't consider it prudent to ask any questions."

"I suppose we should get to finding the mage," Malg said as he grabbed his boots. He threw his robes up over his head and then found his staff, which had fallen back behind the headboard.

As they left the room, Jonna was standing just outside, leaning up against the pillar. "I heard what you were talking about last night," she said.

Malg raised a suspicious eyebrow. "What do you mean?" he asked. His mind was racing. What did this woman know? Why was she eavesdropping? What had he talked about last night?

"You are looking for Falion," she said.

"Maybe," Malg replied.

"You are," Jonna stated flatly. "Don't try playing games with me, orc."

She looked even prettier in the morning, her strong, dark arms crossed over her chest. Malg shook his head and tried to push the thought away. This was not the time. "And if we are?" he asked.

"Then we might have a problem," she said. "You see Falion is not very popular around here. He is into some shady things, and I'm wondering why three odd-looking strangers are here looking for him."

"Why do you care?" Wilkes asked. "You say you don't like him."

"I have an obvious interest in the wellbeing of this town," she replied.

Wilkes shrugged, "And maybe we don't care to share our business with the local gossip keeper."

Malg glanced quickly around the inn. It was completely empty, except for the orc bard, who was snoring loudly enough it would easily cover their conversation had anyone been listening in. He suddenly became a little self-conscious in front of the Redguard innkeeper, wondering exactly how loudly he had been snoring.

"Wilkes," Malg said. "Could the truth be any worse than a lie and gossip? The last thing we need is people making up stories about us."

"Depends on her," the scout said.

"What do you want with him?" Jonna asked again, this time with a sharper edge in her tone.

"Our friend has a little problem," Malg whispered. "We were told Falion had a way to deal with it. That's all. We do not want any trouble, and we do not plan on staying longer than it takes to solve the issue."

Jonna's gaze softened. "I see," she said. "The Argonian was infected?"

Neither Malg nor Wilkes responded.

"I think he does have what you are looking for," Jonna replied. "Forgive my rudeness. He gets more hatred than he deserves from the people around here, and I get worried when people come looking for him."

"Fair enough," Wilkes said.

"If you head straight out of the inn and take a left at the smithy, his house is near the end of the pier," she said. "You can find him there most of the time." The innkeeper looked around them into the room. "Where is your friend, anyway?"

Malg shrugged and Jonna's gaze hardened again. Without a word, she hurried outside. Malg and Wilkes followed her out onto the porch to see the innkeeper scanning the area around the Moorside.

"Looking for me?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers' voice came from behind them. Somehow, he had missed his friend, who was standing directly behind him.

Jonna stuttered a bit, but only managed a nod.

"You have no reason to be concerned," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "I have no desire for that. I left late last night to sate the hunger. The blood of the deer worked well enough, and I do not plan to remain in this state long enough to do that again."

"Very well," Jonna said, regaining her composure. "I told your companions where to find Falion."

"I heard," Wiggles-Her-Fingers nodded. "Thank you."

"Ok," Wilkes said. "I guess we should be on our way then." He stepped down off the porch.

Malg followed the scout. Neither Wiggles-Her-Fingers nor Jonna took their eyes off each other as the Argonian moved around her and down the other set of stares. She did not turn her back to the innkeeper until she stepped off the wooden planks and out onto the road.

Malg did not understand at all what had just happened, but he decided it was best not to ask questions, as Wiggles-Her-Fingers still seemed put off by their host. The group followed the road to the Jarl's residence and then took a left onto the pier, as they had been instructed and walked down to the large house at the end of it. It seemed normal enough, no real hint of magical presence, but that did not mean much. Many mages were skilled at concealing their power, and if Falion was indeed hated by some of the town's inhabitants, it made sense that he would try to do so.

Malg knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. He knocked again, and the door instantly cracked enough to reveal the edge of a hood and a single, dark eye.

"We are looking for Falion," Malg said.

"Who are you?" the man asked.

"I am Malg," he said. "Of the College of Winterhold, and these are my companions: Wiggles-Her-Fingers and Wilkes."

"Also of the College, I assume," he asked.

"She is," Wilkes replied. "Not me."

"And where are you from, Breton?" the man asked.

"Evermore originally," Wilkes replied. "But that was some time ago."

The eye in the door grunted, seemingly unconvinced and then turned back toward the mages. "If you stand before me to accuse me of sacrificing children or eating the hearts of the dead, you may save your breath!" the man growled. "I have done no such thing, nor do I intend to! I simply wish to live my life in peace!"

"Why would anyone accuse you of that?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

The door was flung open. An imposing Redguard mage stood in the doorway, dressed in blue robes. Malg quickly had an accusatory finger thrust toward his face. "The people of Morthal and those at the College of Winterhold for that matter would much rather weave their own horrid tales about my life than simply ask me for the truth," the mage said. "If they choose to remain in their ignorance and fear me, that is their choice, but that does not change who I am."

"I am not here for the college," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "I am here on personal business."

"It doesn't matter!" he snapped. "The College of Winterhold is prejudiced against anything they cannot fully grasp. They like to play the victim as if everyone in Skyrim hated them, but they are hypocrites. They act like they are so open, accepting necromancy while rejecting what is truly exploratory research!"

"Then you can help me?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

"And open myself up to the meddling of the college and further interference?" he asked. "Never! I will have nothing to do with the college anymore, nor anyone who is connected with them! Leave me be!"

The man was about to slam the door in their face when Wilkes begged him to stop. "Sir, please," Wilkes entreated him. "I have nothing to do with the college. She saved my life, even while afflicted with this disease. I have dealt with my share of liars and backstabbers, and I assure that this Argonian is not like that. She is faithful and kind, even to those who do not deserve it. For goodness sake, she never even tried to drink our blood! I say that says a lot for a vampire."

Squinting suspiciously, the mage looked from Wilkes over to Wiggles-Her-Fingers and then back to Wilkes. "You are likely very good at persuading most people, Breton, but your honeyed words do not convince me," the mage sneered. "I will have nothing to do with the college! Now, away with…"

The mage never finished his demand, as Wiggles-Her-Fingers flung a ball of otherworldly illumination directly into the mage's face. Instantly, his entire demeanor changed, and he stood unmoving in the doorway for several moments as both Malg and Wilkes looked at him, unsure of what would happen next.

"What did you do to him?" Malg asked.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers shrugged, "I am not exactly sure, but it seemed like the right spell at the time. I think he should be more agreeable now. What is your name?" she asked the stunned mage.

"Falion," he responded. "It is a pleasure to meet you, come in." Falion moved back out of the doorway and motioned the three of them inside.

The inside of the home was one large room with a hearth, a small bed, and several animal hides and heads decorating the walls. What caught Malg's eye however was the enchanter's table in the corner next to a bookshelf full of potions, soul gems, and skulls. He felt uncomfortable. The plethora of odd items made him think of conjuration, the only part of studying at the College of Winterhold he detested. He could feel his skin crawling at the thought of creepy animations summoned forth from the dark places of existence.

"I know a good deal about illusions," Wilkes said. "But there was something odd about that spell. It did not seem quite normal. Are you sure it wasn't something vampiry?"

Wiggles-Her-Fingers shrugged again, then turned back to Falion, who was looking at her expectantly with an odd smile on his face. "I've heard you're an expert in vampirism," she said. "Is this true?"

Falion nodded happily, "I know much about the subject, beyond the reach of most humans. For instance, I know enough to see a vampire where others would see an Argonian."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers lowered her head.

"How long has it been since you turned?" he asked.

"A few days," she replied.

"I see," he said. "And you heard about me at the College?"

She nodded slowly.

"That makes sense," Falion said. "Am I correct in assuming that you do not want to remain a vampire?"

"I do not," Wiggles-Her-Fingers answered him.

"Very well," he said. "I can help you."

At his words, Malg saw the first look of relief on Wiggles-Her-Fingers since he woke up that morning after she had been bitten, believing the potion had rid her body of the disease. "Thank you!" she gasped in delight. "I am ready. What do we need to do?"

"I am afraid it may not be as easy as you imagine," Falion said. "The cure will require a filled black soul gem."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers' jaw dropped. "I, I cannot do that," she stammered.

Malg had a passing knowledge of soul gems from the few classes he had attended at the college, but he had never heard of black soul gems. "What is it?" he asked. "What is the problem? What is a black soul gem?"

Wiggles-Her-Fingers had gone pale, and Wilkes' face was granite. "A black soul gem traps the soul of a sentient creature," Wilkes said.

"You mean?" Malg asked.

Falion nodded, "You will have to kill someone and bring me their soul."


	5. Part 5: Of Stones and Souls

**Malg the Magnificent**

 **Part 5:** _Of Stones and Souls_

"No!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers screamed. "I came here because I do not want to be a monster! I will not become a different kind to avoid it!" She slumped, back to the wall, put her head in her hands, and wept.

Malg came over and knelt next to her. "It will not come to that," he assured her. "We will find another way to dispel the curse."

"I am sorry," Falion said. "I have put years of study into unlocking the secrets of vampirism. There is no other way. If there was, I would have found it by now."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers sunk to the floor, sobbing heavily. Malg pulled her into an embrace and held her as she broke down. He wanted to do more, but he could not think of anything. There had to be another way to get their hands on a filled, black soul gem. "Could we buy one?" he asked.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers shook her head violently. "No," she moaned. "We would be supporting the evil rather than doing it. It would not be any better."

A terrible silence filled the house. Falion laid a sympathetic hand on Malg's shoulder, "I wish I had something better to tell you, but that is what is required for the ritual. It takes a sentient soul to imbue a dead body with life." The mage made his way over to the hearth and began stirring the contents of the small, iron pot.

Wilkes came over and sat next to Malg and a still sobbing Wiggles-Her-Fingers. After a moment, she managed to catch her breath long enough to ask, "What am I going to do? I won't murder someone, and there is no way to buy it without tainting ourselves with blood."

"There are a lot of people who deserve to die," Wilkes suggested.

"But not to have their souls snared," Wiggles-Her-Fingers retorted. "No one deserves that."

"We can't buy it," Wilkes agreed. "But what if we steal one?"

All of them were quiet for a moment, then Wiggles-Her-Fingers slowly raised her head from Malg's chest. "Steal it?" she asked.

"Yep," Wilkes nodded.

That big, toothy smile came over Wiggles-Her-Fingers' face. "Yes," she said. "The energy from whosever soul is in the stone already. We cannot change that, but if we take the stone, we refuse to allow the killer whatever they wanted to accomplish from the murder. It might even allow the victim some kind of peace."

"Whatever part of their soul contains the consciousness is not within the gem," Malg said. "I doubt they would ever know. Vengeance, however, is something we can give to the departed, and it will calm the restless dead. It would be worthy of our efforts, even if we did not need the stone."

"Whatever works for ya," Wilkes shrugged. "Who's going to have one of those things lying around, though? I've never seen one."

"What about that assassin you sunk in the ocean?" Malg asked. "We keep running into them."

"Doubtful," Wilkes replied. "Most of them don't worry about magic and those that do tend to lean in my direction, illusion, rather than flaming blades. A dagger in the dark works well enough for them."

"Who then?" Malg repeated his question.

There was a silence for some time before Falion, who was seated at a small table over against the wall, cleared his throat loudly. "Necromancers," she grunted. "Those degenerates always have filled soul gems, and they almost always prefer black soul gems."

Wilkes turned toward the rogue mage. "Don't you dabble in the same kinda thing?" he asked. "Undead, draugr, zombies, vampires?"

"I do not, you deluded miscreant!" Falion yelled as he shot out of his chair. The mage was furious, and his unexpected outburst caused all three of his guests to flinch in surprise. "Do you see any of those things here? No! And another thing…" Falion's sentence trailed off along with his thought as he was enveloped again by the same incandescent swirls Wiggles-Her-Fingers had cast at him before. His eyes glazed over, and when they refocused on Wiggles-Her-Fingers, he said, "What can I do for you?"

Wiggles-Her-Fingers looked at him strangely, not expecting the question, but after Falion's awkward eye contact, she told him to sit back down and finish his meal. She backed away slowly. Falion never took his eyes off of her, staring intently at her even as he ate, like a dog expecting its master's command.

"Where are we going to find necromancers?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked. She had intended the question for Malg or Wilkes, but Falion answered faster.

"Had you come to Morthal a year ago, you would have found plenty of necromancers in Fort Snowhawk, just to the west," Falion said. "But the blasted legion came through, wiped them out, and set up a garrison there. Any of the illegal soul stones were likely destroyed. However, I happen to know through some of my contacts, that some strange things are happening around Wolfskull Cave, west of Solitude. The farmers nearby are upset and keep asking the Jarl for help. Unfortunately for them, all she does is send a few extra troops to the area, which last I heard, has done nothing to help. I suspect that you will find more than a few necromancers inside with plenty of black soul gems."

"Sounds good to me," Wilkes said.

"I guess we do not have any other options unless either of you knows any necromancers," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

Both Malg and Wilkes shook their heads.

"Very well," she said. She looked back at Falion, who had finished his meal and was now patiently staring at her. "We should leave."

Falion immediately stood.

"No!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers yelped. "Not you, Falion. You need to stay here."

The dejected look on Falion's face was almost too much for Malg to bear. It was as if the man had been told the location of his one true love only to find out it was a cemetery. He was heart-broken that Wiggles-Her-Fingers had told him to stay, and Malg briefly considered suggesting that Falion might be helpful until Wiggles-Her-Fingers expressed her opposition in a violent hiss. He did his best to avoid Falion's longing gaze as they quickly left his house.

Even though the mage was under a spell and his feelings were not real, Malg felt bad for Falion. He assumed the spell would wear off at some point but considering he had never seen that kind of magic before, he had no idea when. He was concerned about the lack of responsibility Wiggles-Her-Fingers had taken with the man, casting a spell out of instinct without considering the possible ramifications. The callousness of the act deeply bothered him. Since she had succumbed to the disease, his friend had become increasing cold-hearted. Perhaps it was the stress of turning. Becoming a creature of night and shadow that preys upon others had to have been traumatic, but Malg was worried it might be more than that. Was his friend becoming more and more the thing she sought not to be? So far, she had kept from feeding on sentient creatures, except for the incident at her initial turning, but what if that moral standard degraded as well? As they journeyed west out of Morthal, it was the first time Malg truly worried about what was happening to Wiggles-Her-Fingers and if his friend was slowly disappearing and becoming something else.

Malg, Wilkes, and Wiggles-Her-Fingers followed the road west from Morthal. They wanted to get to Wolfskull Cave as quickly as possible, but neither Malg nor Wilkes were interested in wading through the marshes or swimming through the ice-cold river separating them from Solitude's shore. In the end, they opted for a bit of comfort over speed and took the less direct route through Dragon Bridge. Wilkes briefly entertained the notion that Falion could be wrong about Fort Snowhawk, but once they got close enough, the legionnaires manning the walls of the fort put that notion to rest. They watched Malg and his associates pass with little interest. From what Malg knew of the legion, they were strong, capable fighters with unmatched discipline. While they were watching, Malg honestly expected more considering how close they came to the entrance, but perhaps they were not the first travelers to pass by that day.

The territory beyond Fort Snowhawk looked as if the snow had suddenly decided it had gone as far as it wanted to and just stopped, leaving the area beyond for the marshes and the pines. It was a welcome change for Malg, who had had enough snow for the time being, and was happy to give his boots the opportunity to dry. The leather had been completely soaked when the captain decided that he and his comrades were no longer welcome on the ship, and even though they had some time by the fire, tromping through the snow had revealed a few weaknesses, leaving his toes cold and wet.

Malg had hardly any time to enjoy the sound of the breeze blowing gently through the towering pines before a sharp barking caught his attention. The party walked along the road toward the sound and soon saw a dog sitting along the side of the road. It was a large, shaggy creature, with a thick matting of grey fur covering its gaunt frame. It had clearly not eaten well for some time. It was barking, but it was not barking at the three approaching travelers. Instead, the creature seemed to be barking at something on the other side of the road. Malg looked over in that direction, but he was unable to see what it was the dog was barking at. He looked back at the creature, who was still ignoring him and began to question the poor beast's sanity. Perhaps it was under a spell or had gone too long without food. Either way, it did not seem to be in its right mind. Wilkes whispered a word of caution, and the three attempted to continue along the road without disturbing the animal. This plan, however, failed miserably the next moment as the dog came bounding up to them the moment it noticed their presence.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers backed away quickly, obviously uncomfortable with the animal's instant familiarity, but it ignored her, choosing instead to nuzzle up to both Malg and Wilkes. Initially, the Breton regarded the dog with caution but quickly warmed up to the animal as it rubbed its head against his knee and licked his hand. Malg was equally charmed by the creature, despite its smell, and then the dog suddenly seemed aware of the third member of their party. It jumped away and attempted to look around the man and the orc over to where Wiggles-Her-Fingers had retreated on the other side of the road. The animal began to whine and back away, despite Malg's best efforts to convince it that everything was alright. A moment later the dog turned and shot off into the woods, yelping as if it was running from a hoard of angry hornets. Malg watched it run for a moment and then looked around, trying to understand what had caused the poor dog's violent reaction. Wilkes turned directly to Wiggles-Her-Fingers.

"Did you do something to that dog?" he asked.

"No!" she said. "Of course not. The smell was foul. I would not touch it with a spear, much less anything else."

"I would not have thought you would," Wilkes replied. "None of us have spears, but you might have cast a spell. You already put Falion under some kind of strange magic." He paused for a moment and then continued, "To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure what else you can do."

"I did nothing to the dog," Wiggles-Her-Fingers repeated.

Wilkes decided to let it go, but he shot a worried look at Malg, plain enough that even the orc could not have missed it. "Perhaps we should head north," Wilkes suggested. "It should not be too difficult to cross the river up by the Solitude Sawmill and climb the rocks back to the road, and it would be faster than going all the way around through Dragon Bridge."

"As well as keeping me away from people," Wiggles-Her-Fingers muttered.

Wilkes turned to the Argonian. "Do you really want to be found out?" he asked. "You already know how it could go if we walk through a town and someone recognizes that you're a vampire! The entire guard could be called down on us! At that point, it would hardly be an option not to hurt someone, if you could even manage to survive."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers did not answer. There was nothing to say. Accidentally revealing herself would cause nothing but trouble, and she knew it.

"I am sure the rocks are not that high," Malg said, trying to be helpful. "I could even carry you if you needed."

Both Wilkes and Wiggles-Her-Fingers shot Malg an irritated look, and the orc closed his mouth, unsure of how he had inflamed an already volatile situation. The two glared back at each other before Wiggles-Her-Fingers finally relented.

"Fine," she hissed. "We will keep away from the larger settlements."

Malg spent a good portion of the rest of the journey to Wolfskull Cave attempting to discern the rising tension between his two friends. Wiggles-Her-Fingers had been in favor of avoiding people before. Now she was angry at Wilkes' suggestion to do just that. If it had nothing to do with the difficulty of moving off the main roads, why was she so upset? Malg made the mistake of pondering the situation while they were crossing the Karth River, and it took enough of his focus away from the river to cause false step which swept him off his feet. The sight of his foot flying up over his head wretched him back to reality in time to suck in a lung full of air before the water closed over his face.

When Malg surfaced, he was already several meters downstream, caught in the strong current coming out of the Reach. He had lost his staff, but that was the least of his worries. His robes were heavy and soaked, and he just managed to rip the hood off his head in time to grab a breath before being pulled back under the surface. He tried several times to put his feet down and stop himself, but the current was just too strong, tossing him head over heels before the river bottom fell away entirely. Malg struggled to get to the surface, cursing his lack of concentration in every language he could recall. Again, his head broke the surface, and he gulped in several full breaths of air as the river pulled him downstream toward the Solitude docks. He made for the docks, swimming as hard as he could, but it was nearly impossible to move in the sodden robes. When he was pulled back under the water, Malg began to tear at the robes in frustration pulling them up over his head and casting them into the current. He did the same with his boots, and only then did he start making some progress toward the shore.

As Malg got closer to the docks, he felt a sharp pain in his back. It was as if he had been slashed by a dagger. He whipped around quickly to see nothing in the water but his own blood. Before he could turn back to the shore, the same, sharp pain returned, this time on the underside of his right leg. Malg roared in pain and re-upped his desperate attempt to reach the edge of the river. He was hit again and again by the stealthy assailant without laying eyes on it. It was not until the slaughterfish's teeth slashed him across the face that he saw the shiny scales of the deadly aquatic assassin. Fear and pain had taken over as the orc howled and punched at the water, but it did no good. The water surrounding him was red with blood, and the current kept pulling him farther downstream. There was another slash and another and finally a jolt of pain that went through Malg's entire body before his vision faded, and he knew nothing more.

When Malg opened his eyes, he was looking at the Masser and Secunda surrounded by the stars and gleaming brightly in the night sky. He shot up instantly of the blanket, shouting and swinging his fists until he realized the sound of the river was coming from the bank several yards away. He turned around to see his friends looking at him assumed. After a short chuckle, Wilkes went back to tending to the slaughterfish roasting over the fire, and Wiggles-Her-Fingers put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Calm down, Malg," she said. "You are safe."

"What happened?" Malg asked. "The last thing I remember I was in the water and the fish were biting me. They felt like blades in the water."

"Have you never heard of slaughterfish?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

Malg nodded.

"That is what bit you," she said, pointing to the fish on the fire.

Malg walked over to them. He looked closely at the heavily muscled jaws and razor-sharp teeth and cringed as he remembered the pain of his wounds. The fish were monstrous, an abomination seemingly created to torture anything that set foot in a river.

"They would have at you for dinner if not for Wiggles," Wilkes said. "When we saw you screaming and bleeding like a stuck pig, she blasted the water with the biggest bolt of lightning I'd ever seen. It nearly knocked me over. The next moment, these fish came bobbing to the surface like apples all around you. It's kinda funny thinking about it now, less so while they were carving you up."

Malg turned and smiled at Wiggles-Her-Fingers who smiled back. "Thank you," he said.

"You have done the same for me and more, Malg," Wiggles-Her-Finger replied.

"I bet he didn't shock the snot out of you when he did it, though," Wilkes laughed.

Malg raised an eyebrow and Wiggles-Her-Fingers snorted as she tried to squelch a snicker. "Well," she said, after composing herself. "I did not have much choice. I did heal your wounds afterward, though."

Malg looked himself over in all the places he could see that he remembered being bitten. There were not ever any scars. "I suppose so," he said. "Did you happen to find my staff?"

Wiggles-Her-Fingers shook her head. "Maybe Wilkes can find another in Solitude tomorrow," she suggested. "And some clothes as well?"

"I'll hunt down something you can squeeze into, but you two are staying right here," Wilkes insisted. "If I walk into the city with an Argonian vampire and a naked orc trailing behind me, I might as well insist on being arrested at the gate."

Malg nodded. He did not want to parade himself naked through the streets either, and he trusted Wilkes to find him something good. He gave the scout what coin he had, and he disappeared over the rocks.

The next morning Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers slept in. Their camp was hidden from view of the road and the sawmill by rocks, and there was nothing on the other side of the river except a bridge. Malg figured if anyone did see his fire from there, it would only look like a couple of fishermen getting an early start. By the time Wiggles-Her-Fingers managed to convince herself to slither out from under her blankets into the morning sun and help Malg pack up the camp, Wilkes had returned with far more than Malg had expected.

"I ran into a spot of good luck," Wilkes said as he laid a wrapped package in the orc's lap. "Apparently, the court recently set a bounty to clear out Wolfskull Cave, and they didn't much care who took it." He showed the two mages the document signed by Falk Firebeard, Jarl Elisif's personal steward. "I'm sure the coin will be nice, and it couldn't hurt to get on the jarl's good side. From what I heard in there, the legion is getting ready to knock on Ulfric's door."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers looked over at him, suddenly more interested.

"It works fine for me," Wilkes continued. "I was never really at ease with those 'Skyrim is for the Nords' types. Made me want to keep an eye open while I slept."

"Agreed," she whispered. "The few I met on the way to the college seemed far too eager for a fight. It was disconcerting."

"The court mage also had several very nice pieces for sale," Wilkes added as he handed Malg a handsome staff carved into the likeness of a dragon. "She said this particular staff will incinerate nearly anything. I think I'd be careful with it. She seemed to know what she was talking about."

"Fire?" Malg asked.

Wilkes nodded, "I figured it'd be useful considering our quarry will probably be calling up hordes of rotting corpses. I snagged you a nice fancy getup as well. If I remember correctly, the robes have an enchantment. She said alteration spells should be easier to cast once you put them on, and you should recover faster as well. There's a matching hood and pair of boots, too. I hope they fit. I had to guess on the size."

"Wow!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers marveled as she pulled the orange robes and hood out of the packaging. "These are beautiful, and the enchantment is powerful! Here, Malg put them on!"

"Yes, please put them on," Wilkes said flatly noticing Malg's uncrossed legs.

Malg took the clothes from Wiggles-Her-Fingers and quickly dressed. He instantly felt more powerful, and the boots were a near perfect fit. Wilkes had obviously had experience guessing sizes. "How did you find such things for the coin I had?" Malg asked.

"I gave him a bit extra," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "It was the least I could do after all you have done to help me."

"Indeed," Malg said, smiling. "Thank you."

"It still seems you found an incredible deal, regardless," Wiggles-Her-Fingers observed. "Was she trying to offload her inventory?"

Wilkes blushed slightly. "I might have added the hood and boots to the purchase after paying," he coughed.

Both Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers stared at the Breton, jaws hanging open.

"You stole these?!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers hissed.

"Kinda, a little," Wilkes said. "I was giving her a reasonable offer, but she wouldn't budge."

"You thought that was a reasonable offer for all of this?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

"It was all you gave me," Wilkes shrugged. "And I think the orange looks good on him."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers was about to argue but then froze. She turned and looked at Malg who was now completely dressed and holding his new staff. After a moment, she slowly turned back to Wilkes and nodded.

"Well, good," Wilkes said. "Now that the naked orc issue had been rectified, we should be going."

They spent the next couple hours making their way through the rugged, rocky terrain west of Solitude. They were worried at first about passing by the sawmill, but the laborers were far too busy cradling the large pile of fresh timber into the mill to take notice of them. Malg guessed that the workers probably saw travelers and adventurers somewhat regularly anyhow with Solitude being the seat of the Empire in Skyrim. From that point on, they were about to avoid the city stables and most of the road by climbing the rocks. Wiggles-Her-Fingers dug her claws in and scaled the rocks as if she was born on the side of a cliff. Wilkes traversed the rough terrain with only slightly more effort, but Malg, the only one of the three born in the mountains was breathing like an asthmatic mammoth by the time they neared Wolfskull Cave.

"Give me a moment," Malg wheezed, sitting down on the remains of a small stone wall across the road from the cave. "I'm not used to climbing so fast."

"Or at all?" Wilkes prodded.

Malg sent a scathing glare back at him and Wilkes' eyes grew wide.

"Sorry," he said, raising a hand in surrender. "We aren't there yet. I thought we were, but we're not."

Malg grabbed onto the head of his staff and pushed himself off the wall, irritated by the Breton's insinuation, and marched over to the entrance of the cave. He was focused so much on proving his capability to Wilkes that he almost did not hear the telltale creaking sound of ligament and bone. When he turned, the two skeletons were nearly on him. Out of instinct, Malg swung the staff at the heads of the approaching undead, crushing the first and staggering what was left of the skeleton as the second reached out for him. Malg pushed it back and brought the staff across the side of its leg, breaking the femur in two. He repeated the action against the skeleton's other leg, forcing the abomination to the ground. As Malg brought the staff up over his head for a final blow on his downed opponent, he suddenly remembered what he was holding. Feeling silly for needlessly taking on the undead in melee range, he hopped backward, leveled the weapon at the one skeleton still walking, and released the staff's energy.

The blast from the weapon was far more than Malg had anticipated. Staves do not have recoil. It is not how magic works, but this weapon seemed to leap out at the enemy as the flames surged forth from the dragon's head and engulfed the former human's animated remains. Malg had kept his eyes on his enemy, but the fire was so bright, he was forced to look away for just a moment. When he looked back, only the bottom half of the lowers leg bones remained above the feet, charred and smoking. Everything else was ash, which unfortunately for Malg, was picked up by a brisk, untimely wind and blown directly into his face. He coughed and sputtered but was able to recover in time to see the second skeleton still crawling toward him. Another flash of fire and that skeleton too was nothing but ash in the wind.

An amazed "whoa" was all Wilkes could manage after seeing the staff in action, but Wiggles-Her-Finger's response was far more reactive as she refused to come too close to the staff.

"What's wrong?" Malg asked.

"The fire," she whispered. "I don't like the fire."

"Ah," Malg said. "Don't worry. I will keep it pointed away."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers nodded, but she maintained a distance as the three entered the cave.

Malg felt a little uncomfortable as he led the way down into the depths of a cave he knew full well-contained necromancers and their undead minions. He thought back to his expedition into Saarthal, and he expected this underground lair to look somewhat similar to what he had experienced there. As they ventured into Wolfskull Cave, however, Malg was surprised to see that it appeared to be just a normal cave.

When they came upon a small chamber with an abandoned cart, Malg turned back to the others and asked, "Are you sure this is the right place? It doesn't look like anyone has been here in a long time."

Wilkes walked passed the confused orc and took a quick look at the cart while the other two watched. Wiggles-Her-Fingers took up position in the back, well away from the dragon head staff, and Malg began looking around the front of the small open space. Whomever the people that stayed here before were, they were strange, Malg thought, abandoning a cart in a cave and then stringing up the bones of dead animals. Maybe it was some kind of strange ritual they did before leaving or maybe it meant something while they were here. Curious, Malg poked the string of bones with his staff. They clattered far more loudly than he had anticipated, and he instinctively grabbed them to silence their song. Both Wilkes and Wiggles-Her-Fingers were looking at him, and his face flushed. Wiggles-Her-Fingers stepped forward quietly and helped to extricate Malg from the bone chimes as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, even with her help, the chimes rattled more, echoing through the cave in both directions. The group listened, but they did not have to wait long before their fears were confirmed by a deep, hollow cry echoing up from the deeper parts of the cave.

Wilkes whispered an intelligible string of colorful language, and they hid at the edges of the tunnel, waiting as the moaning grew closer and closer. Malg could hear the clattering steps of bony feet on the cave floor, and he cursed himself for his lack of caution. He brought his staff up but felt Wiggles-Her-Finger's hand on his arm.

"Not that," she said. "I'm too close."

Malg nodded and put the staff down, but he was determined to clean up his own mistake. As the draugr appeared from around the corner, Malg immediately paralyzed the abomination and caught it before it could hit the floor and cause an even greater racket than the bone chimes had.

"Now what?" Wilkes asked as Malg stood holding the incapacitated undead.

Only then did Malg realize that he had not thought his plan all the way out. He looked helplessly at his companions and shrugged. He put the ancient skeleton down as quietly as possible and handed the weapons and armor to Wilkes, who put them in the cart, and as he did so, he got an idea. When he had removed the final piece of armor, he began breaking off the limbs of the draugr where the brittle ligaments held the bones together. There was nearly no noise, and soon Wilkes was making a pile of bones next to the weapons in the cart. Eventually, the unholy gleam in the eyes went out, and they set what remained out of the way.

"That was close," Wilkes said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Well done."

"I think you should lead the way now," Malg whispered. "Since it is clear that this place is not abandoned."

Wilkes nodded and quietly led the party deeper into the cave. It was not long before he signaled them to stop, and the reason was clear when Malg peeked around the corner. Since he had first walked into Wolfskull Cave, he had been disappointed to find what appeared to be a normal, underground hollow. However, the notion that this place remained unaltered was dispelled the moment he saw a wooden door, surrounded by lit torches, set into the far wall of a room, which appeared to have been carved out of the cave's rock walls. The work was centuries old, but the fresh wooden door and lit torches confirmed that it was not only the dead who walked here.

"Malg," Wilkes whispered. "Stay here and cover us while we clear the room."

Wilkes and Wiggles-Her-Finger crept silently out toward the fire burning in the far part of the room, and Malg stepped out just far enough to see their silhouettes and those of the robed figures they were sneaking up on. It was quick and quiet. Wilkes made quick work of the first, covering his mouth and drawing the bladed edge of his ax's backspike across the man's throat. Wiggles-Her-Fingers slashed the other's neck open with her claws. He was worried for a moment when she fell out of sight, but Wilkes only turned away. Wiggles-Her-Fingers soon reappeared, and it was clear she had taken the opportunity to feed. Malg felt a little sick, and he noticed Wilkes was doing his best not to show he felt the same way as he checked to see what the necromancers were carrying.

They were on their way back over to him when the door burst open. A large, undead warrior stood wielding a massive greatsword followed by two men in black robes. Before they could fully manage to clear the doorway, Malg let loose the fire from his staff. The draugr fell instantly, its dry, dead flesh consumed by the flames. The men behind cried out in pain for only a moment before they fell to the fire as well. When Malg drew back his staff, everything that could be on fire was. The corpses were smoldering heaps of ash, and what was left of the door was slowly burning. Moments later, nothing was left of the door but the iron fittings.

"These necromancers didn't have one," Wilkes said. "I'd say that thing is coming in handy," he commented as he stepped through the smoldering remains of the wooden door.

Malg smiled and then nonchalantly motioned for Wiggles-Her-Fingers to follow Wilkes through. He instantly regretted his blasé act as he saw his friend trembling before the aftermath of the fire. It had been clear for some time that she was afraid of fire, and now he was the wielder of her greatest fear. In that moment, he got the faintest taste of what his friend must have been feeling when she became another's nightmare. "It is alright," he said. "I'll go first." The look of fear in her eyes was replaced by a moment of reluctance and then finally appreciation, but all this was offset by the bit of blood still smeared across her lips. It was hard for Malg to grasp of uneasiness he felt he walked through the door, but the unease was strangely not for what might be ahead. It was for what was behind him, so silent her could not even hear her footsteps even when he listened for them. He shook his head. What was happening? She was his friend, right? She was still his friend? The hair prickled on the back of his neck, and he nearly turned around before swirling channels of purple energy caught his eye and a hollow voice called out from beside a strange glowing from atop the ruins of an old, stone tower.

"Wolf Queen," the voice called out. "Hear our call and awaken. We summon Potema!"

A chorus of other voices echoed the final statement, "We summon Potema."

"Long have you slept the dreamless sleep of death, Potema," the voice continued. "No longer. Hear us Wolf Queen! We summon you!"

"Who is the Wolf Queen?" Wilkes asked the mages.

Malg shrugged.

Once again, the chorus took up their chant, "We summon Potema!"

"Whomever she may be," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "I doubt we want them to finish summoning her."

Malg shook his head. "No, I don't think I want to meet her," he said.

"It sounds like the ones running the ritual are up on that tower where these channels of conjuration energies are coming together," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "If we can get up there, we can interrupt the summoning. That should earn us the bounty, and someone in here is bound to have a black soul gem."

"Agreed," Wilkes said.

"We should proceed quietly?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers suggested.

"I don't think so," Wilkes disagreed. "I'm sorry, Malg, but you are just terrible at sneaking anywhere. Even if I muffle your steps, you still might get heard trying to get through these ruins. I think, however, it might work just as well if we startle them."

"What?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked. "You want to alert the entire cavern?"

Wilkes was looking at Malg. "Yes," he nodded. "Malg, those necromancers are not wearing any armor. I think it might work out very well for us if you got angry."

Malg lowered his head. He looked down over the edge of the rocky cliff to see several necromancers walking around in robes. As the words of Wilkes' suggestion echoed in his mind, they seemed fragile, delicate. He set his jaw, sighed, and girded up his loins.

The first dark conjurer barely raised his head in time before the raging orc smashed into him. Malg remembered his eyes, as big as dinner plates, just before his shoulder impacted the man's chest. His slender form crashed against the stone wall behind him and crumpled unconscious to the ground. Malg crashed through the skeleton next to him and charged down the stone steps, through a doorway and up through a tower. At the top of the steps above the tower, a draugr stepped forward to meet him, ax in hand. As Malg raged, even the idea of injury or death seemed foreign, as if it could never happen. He was too strong, empowered by the very essence of fury. He caught the ax by the haft and wrenched it from the bony fingers, dislocating several joints in the process. The dusty corpse continued its attack, undeterred by the loss of its weapon, but crumpled to the stones as Malg crushed its skull with his own. The subsequent blow of the draugr's ax cut down through the ribs and the spine, and Malg kicked what was left off the ledge beside him.

A necromancer came running down the steps and summoned two nearby corpses to the feet to fight. Malg did not even slow down as he ascended the steps and all three fell in flames. Malg charged along the stone path between the ruined towers to the base of the tower upon which the ritual was happening.

"Something is wrong," the same voice from before called out. "There is an intruder."

Another undead corpse, clad in the ancient armor, stood blocking the way into the tower. Malg hardly noticed it as he smashed it in the side of the head with the ax. It toppled over the edge of the wall and crashed into pieces on the stones below. He rushed up the steps to the shouts of alarm raised by the cadre of necromancers at the top. When Malg emerged onto the roof of the tower, the first necromancer screamed, but it was cut short as Malg buried the blade of the ax in her head. Blood and brains splashed across his face as he roared in victory. The channel of energy from the necromancer broke, and the ritual began to fail. The other two necromancers, finally acknowledging the eminent threat broke their own connections to the ritual and the glowing, purple conduit faded. Malg growled as he turned upon them, ready to rip the conjurers apart. They fell back, fearful of the enraged orc, and began to summon their own undead warriors. The spells were never completed. A blast of lightning cracked across the top of the tower reducing both of the necromancers to ash. Malg turned ready to attack the new threat until he saw Wiggles-Her-Fingers and Wilkes standing by the tower stairs.

His enemies gone, Malg turned away from them. The adrenaline was still pumping through his body and he began to pace angrily back and forth across the tower roof. He grabbed the necromancer with the ax still firmly embedded in her head and slung her body off the tower. He heard the crunch and clang of the steel when the weapon hit the stones below. Malg roared again and smashed his fist into the raised wooden drawbridge in front of him. The mechanism holding up the bridge broke, and it fell to its lowered position. Malg rubbed his eyes. As the adrenaline was dumped from his body, he was suddenly very tired.

"It is done, Malg," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "They are all gone."

Malg sat down on the bridge and lay down backward on it, breathing heavily. Cautious of the post-rage orc, Wilkes walked over and sifted through the ashes of the necromancers. A moment later, he lifted a dark-colored gem from their remains.

"Is that one?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

"It certainly seems so," Wilkes replied. "I'm glad, too. I didn't want to have to go back down there and look through the rest of his wave of destruction." He turned to Wiggles-Her-Fingers. "I know what you told me, but I honestly was not prepared for that level of destruction. Makes me wonder how Orisium ever fell, or how orcs have ever lost a battle for that matter. If something like that ever came at me, all I could hope for was that I emptied my bladder before the battle started."

Malg pushed himself up off the wooden planks of the bridge. "Do we have what we came for?" he asked.

Wilkes replied, "Yes, I believe we do."

"Good," Malg said. "Because I think I tied this wrong." He stood up and untied his robes from around his legs. "They rubbed the inside of my legs raw."

"A small comfort for the obliterated, perhaps," Wilkes chuckled.

Malg ignored the comment. "How do we get out of here?" he asked. "I've had enough of this place."

Malg and Wilkes were able to secure an audience with Falk Firebeard before the Jarl Elisif's court retired for the evening. The steward was shocked to hear about what the necromancers had been up to so close to the city, and unlike Malg and Wilkes, he very much knew who Potema was. The thought of the Wolf Queen being raised into some unholy abomination instantly drained the color from his face and doubled the bounty promised. After the steward dropped the heavy purse in his hand, Malg asked where the court mage was. Falk pointed him toward Melaran, a high elf, saying that he just inherited the job after a bit of unpleasantness with the former court mage. Malg looked at Wilkes who shrugged, and the two left the Blue Palace. Malg still felt a little guilty about wearing stolen clothing, but he could hardly pay back someone who was no longer there, and the way Falk had stressed the word unpleasantness made him suspect that the previous court mage had probably not left on good terms.

Malg and Wilkes met up with Wiggles-Her-Fingers where she had made camp outside the city. They spent the evening eating and telling stories before finally going to sleep. The next morning, they made the trek to Morthal, and when they knocked on Falion's door, the mage did not seem surprised to see them.

"I figured you three would turn up again," Falion growled. "However, I am not sure why you think I would help you after what you did to me. I do not like having my mind toyed with, vampire, and…" The word slurred as green glow swirled around his head, and the mage suddenly became much happier to see them.

"Is that going to cause some lasting damage?" Wilkes asked as the mage begged them to come in.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers shrugged, "I do not know."

"Do you have the black soul gem?" Falion asked.

Wilkes handed the gem to the mage.

"Excellent," Falion said as he gazed into the gem. "It is indeed full." He turned the gem in his hand and continued to stare at it. "Do you ever wonder about the souls of the people?" he asked. "Where their consciousness goes?"

"This is the only one I've seen," Malg said.

"Right, of course," Falion responded. "The ritual to restore the soul of an undead creature must take place at dawn, so we will have to wait until then. You are certainly welcome to remain here."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers nodded, and Malg agreed. It seemed safest to wait, especially if Falion would have to be convinced to help again, which of course did happen several hours later. In the middle of a late dinner, Falion suddenly leaped up from the table yelling and cursing at them and ordering them out of his house. The outburst surprised Malg in the middle a big gulp of spiced wine causing him to spew the delicious beverage all over Falion's face. The mage sputtered and tried to continue his tirade until Wiggles-Her-Fingers reapplied her spell. Falion then apologized profusely for upsetting Malg and went about wiping the stunned orc's face, even as his own dripped with wine and spittle. Malg, unsure of how to respond to the man's attempt to clean him, looked for help to Wiggles-Her-Fingers and Wilkes who were both doing their very best not to laugh.

In the early hours of the morning, just before dawn, the group followed the once again freshly swayed Falion into the marshes north northwest of Morthal. It was a dreary, unsettling place at night. Malg could hear the sounds of all sorts of creatures scurrying through the wispy grasses and off into the murky water. He did not mind rats, he even considered the surprisingly intelligent rodents charming in their own way, but the things scampering out of their way did not sound like rats. Despite the unsettling, distinctly nonrodent-like noising scuttling out of their path, he kept trying to think of rats. It did not work, and he eventually started talking to Wiggles-Her-Fingers in an attempt to take his focus off the unnerving sounds.

"It will be done soon," Malg said.

"Yes," Wiggles-Her-Fingers agreed. "It feels like only yesterday I was bitten, but at the same time, it feels like ages since I have even bothered to breathe."

"You haven't been breathing?!" Malg asked, disturbed at the prospect.

"No," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "At some point, I realized I did not need to anymore. At first, it was an odd feeling, like holding your breath. The disturbing part came when I realized there was no pressure to start again. A couple of days ago, I realized I had not been breathing at all, and I could not remember the last time I had."

"Did it bother you?" Malg asked, hoping for an affirmation.

"A little," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "I had to keep telling myself it was only for a time. As terrible as I felt, as dead as I was, I had to keep reminding myself that I did not want to remain dead. I want to be alive, not just a walking, talking corpse, especially if I am always going to have this odd taste for blood. I want to really be alive. I know I do not have the power to do that on my own, but if I choose life, there is something more powerful than me that can restore me. This can be my rebirth."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers stopped as she said the final words, and Malg turned to see Falion standing near the center of an old carved stone circle surrounded by ancient monoliths. "The sun is about to rise," Falion said to Wiggles-Her-Fingers. "Come stand in the center of the circle, and once you are ready, I will begin."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers smiled. It was the first time Malg had seen that toothy grim in a long time, and he could not help but smile, too, as she left his side and took her place in the center of the circle.

"I need the rest of you outside the stone pillars," Falion said. "I don't think anything will happen, but it is best to be sure."

Malg and Wilkes hurried out of the ring of tall stones and made sure to keep well beyond them. Wilkes even went so far as to stand on a different island. Malg could not blame him, and he even found himself backing up into the water as Falion began to speak.

"I call upon the Oblivion realms, the home of those who are not our ancestors. Answer my plea! As in death, there is new life, in Oblivion, there is a beginning for that which has ended. I call forth that power! Accept the soul that we offer!" Falion called out, raising the black soul gem up toward Wiggles-Her-Fingers. "As the sun ends the night, end the darkness of this soul, return life to the creature you see before you!"

As Malg watched, an aura began to radiate from the soul gem. He could not help but notice it was similar to the conduits of purple energy he saw in Wolfskull Cave, but somehow this was brighter and softer at the same time. Then, all of a sudden, that aura was surrounding Wiggles-Her-Fingers as well, and a shadow seemed to fall away from her. Malg never saw where it went, but when it fell away, the aura grew brighter for a moment and then softened so gradually that he hardly noticed when it was no longer there.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers gasped, drawing in a deep breath and filling her lungs as if for the first time. She opened her eyes and looked to the east as the sun rose over the horizon. "It is warm," she said. "And so much more beautiful."

"What is happening?!" Falion screamed. "You! You entranced me and forced me to help you!"

Wiggles-Her-Fingers nodded. "Yes, I did," she admitted. "But it needed to be done, and we were having a rather difficult time convincing you." Falion looked around angrily to Malg and Wilkes who both nodded in agreement. "Hmm," he said. "Perhaps I was being difficult, but it still does not give you the right to play with my mind!"

"I am sorry it had to happen that way," Wiggles-Her-Finger said. "But thank you anyway for what you did."

Falion waved her off, grumbling something incoherent as he trudged off into the marshes. He did not seem to be headed back to Morthal. Malg called out, reminding him of the way back to the city, but the mage just told him what he could do with his directions.

When Malg turned back, he saw Wiggles-Her-Fingers basking in the warmth of the rising sun, the light shimmering across her now bright green scales. Every aspect of her seemed now more joyful and aware of the beauty around her. It was as if she had shed the old, pale, dead skin that was keeping her trapped within a withered husk of herself and was finally free.

Malg was so entranced by Wiggles-Her-Fingers' transformation that he had not noticed Wilkes walking up to stand next to him. "That really was something," the scout said.

"It was indeed," Malg replied.

"I have to say, I wasn't sure if we were chasing a fairytale or not," Wilkes said. "Dead things don't just come alive again for no reason. Although, before today I would have said that didn't happen at all."

A short time later, Wiggles-Her-Fingers walked over to them. Even her stride was different, more energetic and happier. That same quality was in her voice as well. "It would seem I am finally me again," she said.

"How are you feeling?" Malg asked.

"Wonderful," Wiggles-Her-Fingers replied. "It is hard to stop smiling. It is like the world is alive again, as I am."

"I suppose we should be heading back to the college, then," Malg said.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers balked. "I nearly forgot about the college," she admitted. "Do you think they expel students for missing too many classes?"

"I doubt it," Wilkes said. "Especially after what you've been through. In fact, if you tell the professors your story, you might even get some credit towards graduation. People graduate from the College of Winterhold, right?"

Malg nodded.

"Yes, of course," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

"Well, there you go then," Wilkes said.

"Do you want to come?" Malg asked.

"What?!" Wilkes sputtered. "Me? No."

"Why not?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked. "You are clearly gifted with illusions. You could do well there."

"Perhaps," Wilkes said. "But that isn't me. I'll find a crew to get on with and make a little more coin. After the bounty Solutide's steward paid, I have plenty of time."

"Well, if you are in the area, stop by," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "It would be nice to see you."

"Yes," Malg agreed. "We'll share some stories."

"Sounds good," Wilkes said. "I think I'll head south. Whiterun always has some work that needs doing, and I am rather fond of the Bannered Mare. You two have a safe trip back, as uneventful as possible."

Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers stayed on the roads all the way back to Dawnstar and then took the ferry to Winterhold. They were stopped by Stormcloak guards at the landing but as they were wearing college robes, the guards let them by when Malg offered to prove that he was indeed a mage.

"So," Faralda commented. "You aren't dead. I suppose I owe Tolfdir a drink."

"Sorry to disappoint," Malg replied.

"Go on," she said. "They way is open. We haven't had a chance to give out your beds yet, so you might as well have them back."

Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers were greeting with smiles and hearty handshakes from most of the rest of the college's students and staff. Edwyr was the first to shake their hands and welcome them back. He did not say much beyond that, but he seemed genuinely glad that the two were safe. There were a few new students, mostly Nords, but Malg did not manage to catch their names in the commotion. Even the twin managed quick, insincere greetings. The professors quickly began asking which kind of spells they found most useful until the Archmage came out from the tower to welcome the two students back personally. Mirabelle was extraordinarily relieved that Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers had returned and asked that once they got settled back in to come and make their report in person as she was very interested in what had happened. Tolfdir was overjoyed to see them both and excitedly pestered them with questions about their adventures. When Malg mentioned the Wolf Queen, it became impossible to keep the aging professor quiet. He wanted to know every detail about the encounter and was hinting at the idea of writing a book.

Malg made sure not to mention anything about vampires. He really did not feel it was his place to talk about something like that, and he honestly would not blame Wiggles-Her-Fingers if she kept that part of the adventure a secret. It was not exactly the kind of thing you want everyone to know. You never know who might hold the past against you.

Within a few days, Malg and Wiggles-Her-Fingers were back in classes. Malg took a greater interest in conjuration for the expressed purpose of learning how to more effectively combat it. This did not sit well at all with Phinis Gestor, and Mirabelle would have to help resolve several confrontations between Malg and Phinis in the future.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers focused as much as she could on the restoration school, and it was not long before Colette Marence had taken on the enthusiastic Argonian as an assistant. The two began to develop a very close relationship, and one evening Wiggles-Her-Fingers told Malg that she had confided in Colette what had happened to her in Dawnstar. Malg was not surprised. He had seen the relationship blossoming, and he was glad Wiggles-Her-Fingers had a good motherly figure in her life.

It was about a month after their return to the College of Winterhold that Malg received an unexpected letter. The letter was left by the courier on the table in his chamber and bore the seal of the Steward of Solitude. When he saw it, Malg just stared at the letter, unsure of what it might be or if he even wanted to open it. What could Falk Firebeard write that he wanted to read?

It was while he was staring at it that Wiggles-Her-Fingers came up behind him. "What is it?" she asked.

"A letter from the Steward of Solitude," Malg said.

"Are you going to open it?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

"I suppose I should," Malg replied. He grabbed the letter, tore it open and read: "Malg, Over the last few days we have had some disturbing information come to light regarding the events at Wolfskull Cave and the summoning and binding ritual you interrupted there. Given your involvement with that event, I am asking you to return to Solitude to help us once more. I am wary of putting all the details in print. Please come see me at the Blue Palace. Sincerely, Falk Firebeard."

"Do you think someone else finished the ritual?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

"I don't know," Malg said, his face grim. "But I cannot think of another reason why he would write to me."

"I want nothing to do with it," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "I have had more than my fair share of undeath, and I will not expose myself to it again."

Malg understood. She knew undeath intimately, and he could hardly blame her for her feelings toward it.

"You do not have to answer it either," Wiggles-Her-Fingers continued. "It is not your problem. For goodness sake, they can send a legion back to the cave if they want to."

"True," Malg said. He crumbled the letter and threw it into the corner of his room. "They don't need us."

"Do you want to get something to eat?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

"Sure," Malg said. "I could eat."

Malg returned to his chamber late that evening. He had eaten far too much and was halfway to his bed, ready to fall into a very satisfying food coma went he stepped on the crumpled piece of paper. He did not have to open it to know what it was. It was a call for help, and he was here sitting behind stone walls, getting fat and comfortable. What good was he doing here? What good was any of them doing? He wanted to prove that he was capable of great magical power, but what good was power if it was not used for good? There was need out in the world. One was sitting crumpled right under his foot.


	6. Part 6: Guardian

**Malg the Magnificent**

 **Part 6:** _Guardian_

"It has become apparent to me over the years that some who come to the College of Winterhold to learn are not content to stay within the safety and confines of the college grounds," Tolfdir said as the hastily scrawled note left in Malg's chamber.

"What can we do?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked.

"About what?" Tolfdir questioned her back.

"What do you mean?" she retorted. "About Malg! He has gone out alone against a serious danger! There has to be something we can do!"

"The same thing we did the first time he left and went poking around down in Saarthal or when you dragged him off to Dawnstar and across the entire north of the country, I suppose," Tolfdir said.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers went quiet.

"Incidents like this became common enough at the College of Winterhold that our former archmage decided that the college's policy would be to wish them well," Tolfdir continued. "By in large, the mages comport themselves well, as you two did, so it reflects well on the college, and we can use any good will we can get. In addition, the real-world experience you received during your adventures is something we cannot give you here, wouldn't you say?"

"That is true," Wiggles-Her-Fingers conceded. "I am just confused. After we spoke about it, he did not seem to have any interest in answering the summons. I wish I knew he had changed his mind."

"Would you have gone with him?" Tolfdir asked.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers could not meet his gaze. She merely looked at the letter, trying to find words that would not come.

"What happened out there?" Tolfdir asked.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers looked away and then down at her feet. Tolfdir's question burrowed into her. She wanted to answer him, but she did not want to expose herself in that way. It was hard enough to tell Colette. She did not want anyone else to know.

"Perhaps that is why," Tolfdir said. "He did not want to force you to refuse." Tolfdir gave the letter back to her and said, "Try not to worry too much. I know it is easier said than done, but worry won't help him. Prayer perhaps." With that, the professor left her to her thoughts.

As Malg traveled the now familiar route between Winterhold and Dawnstar, he worried about whether or not Wiggles-Her-Fingers would be angry with him. He would never have thought about leaving without her, but the way she had rejected the steward's request tugged at his heartstrings. There was a tremor in her voice, a fear floating just below the surface of what she was willing to admit. She wanted nothing more to do with undeath, and he was not about to put her in the position where she would have to confront it again. Besides, who would want to be dealing with rotting corpses clattering around trying to murder you. Ugly, decayed faces, rancid flesh hanging off dusty bones, and if you were ever unfortunate enough to be around when one of those rattling bone bags moaned, that was a smell that could relieve you of your senses. Seriously, what was wrong with necromancers? For a moment, Malg wondered exactly why he was going back. Even with his mind clouded by a berserker's rage, he still remembered that fetid reek.

Malg stopped. The memory of that smell nearly turned him around, but he quickly reminded himself that if he did not use magic for good, it was not enough in and of itself. That was a realization he had only recently come to understand. It had not come from some big event. It just logically made sense, and it made him wonder if the College of Winterhold had the right idea closing themselves off from the rest of Skyrim. Falion had left the college to do something good, and even if the mage was working with conjuration magic, which Malg found repulsive, and did not particularly like him, Malg still respected what he was doing. Malg shook his head. If he kept going like this, he was going to give himself a headache. He decided it was better just to enjoy the world around him as he went.

Malg stayed the first night away from Winterhold at the Windpeak Inn in Dawnstar. Thoring welcomed him the moment he stepped in the door with a sudden shout just before grabbing Malg in a massive bearhug. Stunned by the unexpected showing of emotion, Malg did not react as he was lifted off his feet.

"Glad to have you back! How are you?!" Thoring asked after finally dropping Malg.

"Well, thank you," Malg replied.

"And where is your Argonian friend?" Thoring asked.

"Not here," Malg replied.

A worried look came over Thoring's face.

"No," Malg said, quickly trying to correct the misunderstanding. "She is alive, just not with me. She is at the College of Winterhold."

"Oh, good," he said. "It would have been a real shame if she fell trying to avenge her brother."

"Malg!" Karita greeted him with a hug almost as powerful as her father's. "I'm glad to see you. How have you been?"

"Well, thank you," Malg repeated.

"Wonderful," she replied. "Can I play you a song? It is the least I can do for the orc who saved our inn and perhaps even our city."

Malg's mind raced for the name of any song. He enjoyed the bardic arts, but he had never really paid enough attention to the songs being played to know what they were called. Eventually, he just shrugged.

"Don't worry," Karita said. "I'll pick a good one for you."

Thoring made sure Malg got the best room in the inn and the best cut of beef for dinner, and as he enjoyed the extra-large portion, Karita played several songs without charge. Malg found that he very much enjoyed the amount of notoriety that came from having bled the Blood Horkers. After his meal, several patrons came up to shake his hand and thank him for his service to Dawnstar.

"I could get used to this," Malg whispered to himself. As much as he wanted to continue to bask in his celebrity, the tavern eventually began to empty until he and Thoring were the only ones left. With sleep rapidly overtaking him, Malg stood, stumbled into his room, and quickly fell asleep.

Malg woke the next morning later than he had intended. Irritated that he had a late start on what he knew would already be a long day, Malg made a hasty exit, paying for his food and room and thanking his host. Thoring told him to come back any time and that there would always be a place for him at the Windpeak. Malg nodded his appreciation and hurried out into the midmorning cold. As he opened the door, a chilling wind rushed in around him, opening his lungs and banishing any last vestiges of dreariness from his mind. It focused him, opened his eyes, and reminded him of his course. In the last lingering hours of the previous night, Malg had changed his mind. He had planned to take the roads to Solitude as he had done before, but the more direct route to Solitude was over the desolate, windswept northern coast. It was a difficult way for most people, but he was an orc, born high up in the frozen, bitter cold of the Dragontail Mountains. If he could survive a childhood there, a stroll along this little-known stretch of the coast should pose little concern. At least this time, he would not have to take a dip in the Sea of Ghosts beforehand.

For the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, Malg trudged along the coastline. He stayed close to the water to keep from being slowed down in the deep snow and even though he was able to travel relatively quickly across the country, something still felt off. It was not difficult to figure out why. He missed Wiggles-Her-Fingers. They had been through some tough times together, and to be alone again was scary. Having someone he could trust to watch his back was a security that he had gotten used to, not to mention having someone to talk with and pass the time. He briefly entertained the notion that he had made a mistake, but then remembered how her transformation had changed her and shook off the idea. She did not deserve to have that trust on her again. He chose to finish this, not her. He would do it on his own.

It was at that moment, encouraged by coming to the same conclusion once again, that Malg heard a low, guttural grunt followed immediately by a short, raspy howl. He looked instantly in the direction of the noise to see bestial shape kicking up large chunks of snow as it plowed toward him. Malg had no time to react before the creature bowled him over, tossing him several meters across the rocky shore. Dazed but with adrenaline already pumping through his body, Malg rolled to his feet, growling at the hulking frost troll. It turned, its three black eyes refocusing on the orc and charged again, swinging its huge shaggy arms in deadly arcs. Malg blocked the troll's attack and grabbed onto the shaggy hide, roaring into the beast's face. A glimmer of doubt twisted the troll's expression, and Malg took the opportunity to jab the end of his staff into the creature's face. The troll winced in pain, closing two of its eyes, but lashed out again, catching Malg in the shoulder. The impact knocked him off his feet and a searing pain shot through the entire limb. Malg pushed himself up to his feet, but the pain nearly caused him to pass out. He could hear clicking in his right arm and instantly knew something was broken. The pain set off a war within himself. One part howled in rage, desiring to succumb to the berserker rage, but each time the same pain brought him back to his senses, sharply reminding him that trying to match the savagery of the troll with his own would not go well with an injury.

Both sides pushed for what seemed far longer than the few seconds the troll aimlessly thrashed, but finally, the logical side of Malg's mind prevailed over his more fiery impulses. As the troll charged again, Malg leveled his staff at the beast and let loose a gout of flame into the creature's face. Instinctively, the beast cried out in pain, and Malg flooded its gaping maw with fire, which streamed down into the troll's gut and cooked the creature from the inside. The troll was dead before its scorched corpse collapsed into the snow.

Malg stood over the stinking, smoldering body for several moments to make sure the beast was truly dead. Finally, his shoulders slumped, and the pain shot through his injured limb again. Malg growled and clutched his arm, which was a mistake because the pain shot to his brain like lightning, and he nearly passed out. Once he managed to uncross his eyes, Malg applied what little he knew of the restoration school to repair his arm. It was not much. He could hardly move his arm, but at least he was able to dull the pain.

It took Malg the rest of the day to reach the northern edge of the marshes. With little desire to brave the marshes at night, he took refuge in the entrance of an old Nord ruin near the coast. After gathering some debris and anything else he could find that would burn, Malg set the pile ablaze with his staff. The burning rubble warmed the entire area. Satisfied, Malg leaned back against the stone wall and fell asleep, basking in the warmth of the flames.

"Hey! Orc!" a deep, gruff voice shouted in his ear just before Malg was kicked hard in the side. "What are you doing here, green skin?!"

The kick barely hurt, but it jostled his injured limb and sent a jolt of pain through the right side of his body. Malg's eyes opened with the pain, and he found himself staring at two ugly Nords with branching black paint designs on their faces and necks.

"What do you want?" Malg grumbled.

"Everything you got," the first man said. "Gold, gems, and that fine-lookin' staff there."

"Maybe you could just go away?" Malg asked. "I had a rather bad day yesterday, and I would prefer to be left alone."

The two men laughed. "I don't think the orc quite understands his situation, do he, Brax?" the second man said.

"Not at all, Gogvir," Brax replied. "Look, orc, we are going to take everything we want from you, whether you had a bad day or not, and if you try to stop us, we're going to flay your lousy green hide. Do you understand?"

Malg nodded.

Brax motioned to Gogvir to take the staff. "Careful, Gogvir," Brax joked. "He's a mage."

Gogvir laughed, "Right, an orc mage!"

Malg's left hand shot out of the sleeve of his robe, and Gogvir stiffened. Brax watched as his companion fell to the stones, unable to move, then his wide eyes turned to Malg, who was now on his feet.

"I warn you," Brax said, but he was unable to finish the warning once Malg slapped his blade away and clamped his hand around the man's throat.

"I do not always understand when people are jesting or leading me on," Malg said. "So perhaps it is better to ask you directly. Were you making fun of me just now?"

Brax shook his head.

"Because it seems like you might have been, and I wouldn't want to make a mistake," Malg continued.

Brax's shaking became more enthusiastic.

"Good," Malg said. "I think it would be nice if we could part ways amicably. I think it would be easier on both of us."

Brax switched from shaking to nodding so quickly Malg though the man might have pulled a muscle. It did not matter, however, as Malg heard the sound of a sword sliding from a sheath. Brax's eyes darted to the side, and Malg turned to see Gogvir, his sword back, about to attack.

Out of reaction, Malg stepped away and dragged Brax to the side, putting him between himself and the danger. The man's eye widened, and he coughed up all over Malg's arm as his comrade's sword cleaved through his body and stuck in his spine. Malg's eyes were equally wide as he dropped Brax's body, which fortunately for him, wrenched the blade from Gogvir's hand. Gogvir rushed Malg, unmoved by his companion's demise, but once again fell to Malg's paralysis spell.

"No honor among thieves," Malg muttered, looking down at his paralyzed enemy. It left him with a problem. He did not want to kill Gogvir, but it would not be long before the brigand was able to move again. He could not have the man following him or gathering his other acquaintances to ambush him in the marshes.

Malg though for a moment, and then quickly grabbed the belt off Gogvir's pants. He also took the blood-covered belt off of Brax's corpse and the laces from their shirts. Before Gogvir was about to move again, he had the man securely tied up. He knew Gogvir was no longer under the spell when the man suddenly let out a scream for help. Malg immediately hit him in the face with his staff, silencing him and knocking out several of his teeth. Blood streamed out from between his lips and down over his bristled chin.

"It would be better if you did not call out again," Malg said.

"For you," Gogvir said. "The rest of the Blackblood Marauders are down at the shoreline looting a shipwreck. If they heard me, you are the one in trouble."

"Do they have a boat?" Malg asked.

"Of course we have boats!" Gogvir sneered. "How else would we move the cargo?"

"Just curious how they were going to move the loot is all," Malg lied. "I'm going to leave now. If you promise now to call out to them again, I won't kill you. Do we have a deal?"

Hope shone in Gogvir's eyes and a ridiculous grin spread across his face. "Yes," he promised. "Of course. I'll just sit here quietly while you run off. Go on."

Malg grabbed his staff and made a hasty retreat. As he expected, Gogvir was yelling his head off not long after he left the ruins, and Malg hid himself behind a small rock ridge. Soon saw a number of men running up from the shoreline to the ruins. Once they had passed him, Malg ran as fast as he could in the direction they had come from.

Just as Gogvir said, two boats were tied to a tree, partially loaded with cargo from the wrecked ship, and the Blackblood Marauders had only left one guard. Malg did not even slow in his approach. He paralyzed the guard, dumped the cargo from one of the boats into the water, and jumped in. At first, it was difficult to paddle with just one arm, but somehow Malg managed to make it work. He paddled out a little way into the Sea of Ghosts and was gone before the rest of the brigands returned.

Malg was impressed with himself. He had to admit that he was usually not that clever and wondered how he had come up with such a plan. Maybe it was Wilkes' influence. Whatever it was, he paddled proudly into the Karth River, laughing as he imagined the moment Gogvir and the rest of the Blackblood Marauders realized how he had duped them. It was extraordinarily satisfying, far more so than just fighting them, not that the fight would have gone when for him in his state. Despite what he was able to do early, the paddling had brought back every bit of pain from before, and he only just managed to float up to the Solitude docks before losing the use of his arm entirely.

"Do you have a plan to deal with her?" Bryling asked as she, Falk, and Erikur sat discussing the situation in the throne room of the Blue Palace.

"I have a few ideas," Falk replied. "I just have to wait to see what works out. Captain Aldis already sent his men down into the crypts. He is ready and waiting to do so again, but if the Wolf Queen really is back, sending a contingent of legionnaires down to her would likely add to our problem, not solve it."

"What about General Tulius?" Erikur asked. "He has enough legionnaires to flood those catacombs twice over."

Falk shook his head. "The general is consumed with finished in the war, and he is not going to spare any troops for this," Falk said. "They are right on Ulfric's doorstep, and he is not willing to be distracted by anything else right now. He said Aldis has enough men to handle whatever the problem is."

"Which will only add to her ranks," Bryling said.

Falk nodded.

"Arrogant Imperial," Erikur muttered.

"We could ask the Companions," Bryling suggested. "Kodlak's warriors have done some mighty deeds in Skyrim."

"I have," Falk said. "I have yet to hear anything in response. I also sent one to the College of Winterhold."

"Why would you bother doing that?" Erikur asked. "The mages are nothing but trouble."

"Archmage Mirabelle is an honorable woman," Bryling retorted. "I'm sure she would be more than capable of helping us in this matter."

As the thanes argued, Falk's gaze rose up over her shoulder to the large, familiar figure grunting his way to the top of the stairs. The orc's right arm hung limply at his side, and he leaned more heavily on his staff than what would inspire confidence. Hope drained from Falk's face, and both Bryling and Erikur turned to see Malg climb the last stair.

Erikur spun back around, "You asked them?" Judgment saturated the question; which Falk did not appreciate.

"They were able to deal with her the first time," he retorted.

"No," Bryling said. "They were able to handle the necromancers trying to summon her."

"I'm sending them," Falk said. "Besides, no one else has responded."

"Fine," Erikur said, throwing up his arms. "Just be sure to tell whoever is the next to attempt this that they will have a couple of undead mages to put down as well."

"We'll see," Falk growled.

"Twenty gold says they don't return, and you'll have to send someone else," Erikur sniffed.

"Done," Falk replied curtly as he went over to greet Malg.

Malg saw the steward coming, he and apologized for not being able to shake the man's hand.

"What happened to you?" Falk asked.

"Frost troll," Malg answered.

Falk motioned to one of the couriers standing against the wall, and the man ran up to them. "Go over to Angeline Morrard and get me half a dozen strong healing potions," Falk ordered. The man disappeared quickly down the steps, and Falk turned back to Malg. "We'll get you fixed up once he returns," Falk said. "I assume you are here about my letter?"

Malg nodded.

"Good, are your companions outside?" he asked. "I would prefer to address you all on what is happening."

"No," Malg said. "I am here alone."

Falk sighed. He could feel the thanes watching from over in the corner. He was no longer worried about the twenty gold Erikur would be itching to collect. Far more than that was at stake if this went badly. "One moment," he said.

Malg watched as the steward walked up to the side of the throne and whispered in Jarl Elisif's ear. After a short conversation, the jarl nodded. Falk then sent another courier scurrying out of the palace before returning to Malg.

Falk sighed, "This is no simple assignment I am going you, Malg. Even a mage such as yourself may be overwhelmed by the power of the Wolf Queen. I know I only wrote to you, but that was because I assumed you'd still be traveling with the other two, that shady Breton and the Argonian who for some reason never wanted to enter the city. Why is that?"

Malg brain raced for some logical reason other than that she was a vampire.

"No matter," Falk continued. "I was just hoping your party was still together. However, since you are not, and I am not willing to send you on this quest alone, I have asked Jarl Elisif and she has kindly given me permission to temporarily assign to you a housecarl."

"Housecarl?" Malg asked, unfamiliar with the term.

"She would be your bodyguard," Falk said. "They are usually appointed to thanes or jarls, but as she is currently unassigned, I think you could use her help." Falk helped Malg over to a bench and sat down with him. "Listen, Malg, when you broke up the binding ritual in Wolfskull Cave, Potema escaped."

Malg's eyebrow rose. He remembered the power those necromancers were trying to bind, and it was not insignificant. He had assumed some of the necromancers had escaped during his frenzied assault and were trying to repeat the failed experiment. Now he understood why the steward bent the rules to get him a little help, and he wished he had asked one of the other mages from the college to come with him, specifically one with strong restoration magic and green scales, even if she loathed the idea. This was not going to be some simple purge of necromancers. Unfortunately, the look of urgency in Falk's expression said there would be no time to send for her.

"We've already encountered some of her minions," Falk continued. However, there is some good news: She is still in some kind of spirit form. Styrr said that if she had taken a corporeal body, we'd be dead already."

"That is good news," Malg stuttered.

"You have already done us a service by stopping the binding," Falk said. "And we are deeply grateful for that. Potema under the control of those necromancers would have been a blight on all of Skyrim, but I fear the Wolf Queen herself is even worse."

As Malg began to realize how seriously stupid he looked for showing up to take this job alone and injured, the courier arrived with the six healing potions Falk Firebeard had ordered. Falk took them and gave the first to Malg.

"Drink it," Falk said. "Angeline makes a quality product. It should heal that arm quick, and take the others with you, just in case."

Malg did as he was told, downing the entire potion in one long draft. The tingling started immediately, and before Falk was finished telling him about all the other potential horrors of the catacombs, his arm was perfectly functional again.

"Go talk to Styrr," Falk said. "He seems certain about what needs to be done to stop Potema, but I honestly did not understand everything he was saying. I'm not really much for magic."

Malg managed a reasonably confident, "Understood," before taking his leave of the steward and the court.

As he left the Blue Palace, the accomplished orc mage was still berating himself for the impression his less-than-prepared appearance must have made with the Steward of Solitude. The embarrassment was suffocating, like a tight knot, twisted up in his chest. Part of him wanted to disappear. The other part wanted to explain himself. Why hadn't he at least taken care of his arm before appearing at the court? Before finding out what was happening, it did not seem to matter much, but now it was just another part of how ill-prepared he appeared to be. Malg growled. His magic was strong enough! He knew it was, but he saw the looks of the thanes! The blonde Nord did not even bother to hide his laughter or his scorn, and it was hard to miss the pity in the eyes of the woman, though she tried to hide it under a mask of propriety! Anger flushed his face again. Arrogant nobles! He would show them! He would show the whole court why Falk Firebeard reached out to him!

Malg doing a good job getting his ire up, when a woman, clad in steel plate armor walked up to him. He was so deeply stewing in his irritation that he did not notice until she spoke, "You must be my charge."

Worked up and shocked by her appearance, Malg instinctively lashed out, but he only bruised his fist on the steel rim of Jordis' shield.

"I'm not particularly happy about it either," she sneered. "I don't trust magic, and if I'm to be completely forthright, I don't much trust those who wield it, either. The fact that it's a spell-flinging orc just makes it that much stranger."

"You hate orcs?" Malg asked, taken off guard by her directness.

"No," she replied. "I have no issue with orcs. I like most that I've met who haven't tried to kill me. It's just wholly unsettling to see one who took to magic rather than steel. Are you alright in the head, orc?"

"Malg is my name," he said.

"Very well, Malg," she said. "Are you alright in the head?"

Malg nodded. He did not like this woman.

"I suppose I'll have to take your word for it," Jordis said. "I am Jordis, the Sword-Maiden. By my oath, given before the Jarl of Solitude, I am sworn to your service. Until the completion of this quest, I am your sword and your shield."

Malg had no idea what to say. Jordis' lines seemed well rehearsed and seemed to call for some kind of response. "Thank you," he said.

"So, where are we going?" she asked.

"I need to talk to Styrr in the Hall of the Dead," Malg replied. "Do you know where that is?"

Jordis motioned for him to follow her, and the two new comrades-in-arms walked down from the Blue Palace into the city. Neither of them said a word, which was alright with Malg. He observed his new companion. She was slightly shorter than the average Nord, but Jordis had an impressive build. Her arms were thick and well-muscled, and though they were hidden under thick steel plates, Malg could tell her legs and her core were equally as strong. She walked confidently and knew how to carry herself. Had her pale skin shown even a hint of green, he would have been forgiven for thinking she was an orc. Malg suddenly realized that he was staring for more than one reason and quickly forced his eyes onto the surrounding architecture, searching for the Hall of the Dead.

Just passed a modest-sized graveyard, strangled by unkempt nightshade bushes and surrounded by a short stone wall, was a dark, dreary house that split the main city road in two. A single lantern hung over the front entrance. Jordis, however, did not approach that door. Instead, she turned and knocked on an unlit door in the side of the building.

"Enter," a voice called from within.

Jordis stepped out of the way and motioned to the door. "After you," she said.

"Doesn't a bodyguard usually go first?" Malg asked. Even though Malg was not afraid of the place, it was rather creepy, and he thought to throw a quick jab at the rude housecarl. He was amazed at how quickly the insult backfired.

"If Styrr poses a threat to you, I don't really see myself coming out successfully in this venture," Jordis retorted.

Malg felt his face flush and quickly entered the hall.

An old man dressed in plain, brown priestly robes stood over a large iron pot sitting on the edge of a tall firepit. "I trust you're not planning any trouble. What can I do for you, friend?" he asked.

"I am Malg, of the College of Winterhold," Malg began. "Falk Firebeard sent me in regard to the situation with the Wolf Queen."

"Ah," Styrr replied, laying a large spoon down next to the pot. "Excellent! I am glad you are here. Potema must be stopped and as quickly as possible before she sets loose a horde of undead into the city. Did you know she was responsible for the Empire's near collapse almost five hundred years ago? I'm afraid that if she manages to reconstitute herself in corporeal form, with the legion weakened by the civil war, she might finally be successful in forcing the Empire from Skyrim and remaking it into something terrible."

"How do we stop her now that she has been summoned?" Malg asked.

"Well, we know where she is," Styrr said. "She has retreated to her old catacombs. The problem with that is that those chambers are filled with dead eager to serve her."

"How are corpses eager to do anything?" Jordis asked.

"That is a little hard to explain," Styrr replied.

"Try," Jordis said.

"Well, alright," Styrr stuttered. "In life, those warriors were loyal to her. Even though the soul is no longer with the body, some might say an aspect of the will remains, and that will would desire to serve as it previously did."

Jordis did not look convinced, but she did not pursue the topic. "So, we will be up against a throng of armed draugr backed by a powerful necromancer," Jordis summed up.

"Almost certainly," Styrr nodded. "A few days ago, one of those blasted draugr busted through a wall into the lower floor of the Temple of Divines. Had the priests not locked the lower floor, the entire city would already be at risk."

"I think that is straight forward enough," Malg said. "What do we do once we've found Potema?"

"Bring whatever is left of her body back here to be exorcised," Styrr said. "This is a terribly dangerous task. Falk must have a lot of faith in your abilities to entrust it to you. Here is the key. Might I ask a favor of you?"

"Of course," Malg replied.

"After you enter, would you lock the door behind you?" Styrr asked.

Malg's eyebrow rose.

Styrr stuttered a bit, fumbling his words. "It is not that I believe you will not be successful," he assured them. "It is just that…"

"If we fail, you want to keep the threat contained," Jordis finished his sentence. It makes sense." She looked at Malg.

Malg nodded, "Of course we will."

Styrr nodded and hung his head. "I should have been more vigilant," he mumbled.

"Huh?" Malg grunted.

"I should have realized something was happening before," Styrr admitted. Earlier, a legion scout snuck down into the crypt below us. I'm not sure what he was after, but some of the skeletons were up and walking around. They were easily dispatched by Captain Aldis' men, but it was a sign of what was to come. Had I been paying attention, I might have deduced the connection to our city's past and been able to warn someone before it got as bad as it is. Hopefully, together, we can at least keep anything worse from happening."

Malg nodded and looked away. "We will try," he said gruffly before sidestepping Jordis and walking out the door.

The confession of the priest made Malg oddly uncomfortable. The priest was being stupid, feeling guilty for something no one could have anticipated, but then he just relieved himself, as if he had been waiting for someone to vomit up all his ridiculous regret for what? Not knowing the future? Part of Malg wanted to help, alleviate the unnecessary guilt while the rest of him wanted to crack open the man's skull and dig around until the stupid was fixed! Most, if not all of the crypts and catacombs in Skyrim, were plagued by the restless dead! Where else is some novice necromancer looking to raise his first corpse going to go?! Phinis had even suggested as much during his conjuration lessons at the college! How would the keeper of the Hall of the Dead not know this! Didn't they keep some kind of correspondence with the keepers in other cities or have some kind of convention?! Argh!

"What's with you?" Jordis asked.

"Nothing," Malg grunted. "Just stupid to feel guilty because he couldn't predict the future."

"Yep," she agreed. "Not like he could have done anything about it anyway."

Jordis' affirmation made Malg feel more vindicated in his frustration as the two of them marched up the cobblestone street and into the temple. Malg did not say a word as he passed by a startled priest and headed down to the lower level. As he fumbled with the key, he heard the priest's warnings followed immediately by Jordis assuring him that they were acting under the authority of the Steward of Solitude. The priest's tone immediately changed to gratitude, but Malg did not hear exactly what he said as the key turned in the lock and the old iron gate creaked loudly on its hinges. A moment later, Jordis was behind him. He locked the gate behind him, and the two descended down through the broken wall into the Wolf Queen's catacombs.

A dead tree stripped bare of leaves and set in a large pot was the first thing Malg saw as he entered the catacombs. It seemed fitting as he would soon be facing more vertical dead things which were sure to be much less accommodating. Jordis quietly put her hand on his shoulder and moved forward ahead of him. Even if she was unhappy about the assignment, she seemed to be taking it seriously. Malg fell in behind and to her right for a clear line of sight.

At the end of a short hallway, Malg noticed a mural carved into a large stone panel. It was the image of a woman, clad in bone and fur, with the severed head of a wolf serving as her headdress. He did not like the image, nor did he much appreciate the artist's skill in rendering it, but somehow Malg was drawn to it, like a fly to the glistening threads of a spider's web.

"You've arrived at last," a voice said. "I was hoping to see you again."

Malg spun around, looking for the speaker.

"The one who gave those fool necromancers what they deserved for trying to bind me."

"Where are you?" Malg asked.

"Right here," Jordis answered. "We need to find the level or switch to drop these bars, or we aren't getting through. How did the draugr even get past these?"

"You are deserving of a reward, little one," the voice continued. "And I can think of no better gift than to allow you to take your place at my side."

"I have no desire to stand by you!" Malg growled.

"Nor I by you, orc," Jordis sneered. "Your foul smell could wake the dead had the Wolf Queen not already."

"Not you," Malg replied.

Jordis scrunched up her face and looked around. "There is no one else here," she said.

"Potema is speaking to me," Malg said.

"Oh, good," Jordis said, rolling her eyes. "You wait 'til we're down here to lose your mind."

"Shh," Malg hushed her.

"Whatever, lunatic," Jordis huffed. "Figures my charge would go moonstruck the moment magic could really help us out. How about you bend these bars out of the way?"

"I was not asking!" Potema shouted so loudly into Malg's mind that he nearly dropped to his knees. "You have already served me, and you are coming to serve me again! You will die here! My servants will cut you apart, and I will raise what is left. Then you will take your place by my side."

As the Wolf Queen's last words echoed in Malg's head, the bars blocking their way forward slid down into the floor. Jordis shot Malg a questioning look.

"She wants to cut us apart and turn us into zombies," Malg said.

"Of course she does," Jordis replied.

Malg followed Jordis further down into the catacombs, incinerating the spiderwebs in their path with small discharges from his staff. It was not long before they started hearing the hollow moans of the draugr clattering around in old, rusted armor. Malg was trying to stay as quiet as possible until he realized that Jordis was making no attempt to. The steel plates of her armor were not loud, nowhere near as loud as the racket the draugrs' armor was making against their bones, but this was not the quiet infiltration Wilkes had utilized. He shrugged. It was better that way. Remaining unnoticed was not exactly his forte.

As they walked through a doorway unto an enclosed balcony, an arrow ricocheted off Jordis' right pauldron. The shaft snapped and part of it flew right passed Malg's face. Jordis did not hesitate. She rushed the walking corpse, smashing the edge of her shield into its face and driving her sword through its chest. The draugr continued to reach for her, but the sword maiden kicked it off of her blade and smashed it to pieces with several blows from her shield. Two more draugr came shambling up from the floor below, but they drowned in flames as Malg bathed the entire staircase in fire. Their smoldering remains crumbled into ash as the staircase lost its integrity and partially collapsed.

"What do you think you can accomplish here?" a voice called down from below, but this time it was not the Wolf Queen.

Jordis and Malg looked over the railing to the lower floor. A woman, dressed in black robes, stood in the middle of the oil-soaked chamber looking up at them. She was pale and gaunt, but her eyes burned with an unnatural light Malg knew too well. He had seen it before in the eyes of his best friend. The vampire's grinned, and the sight of her fangs sent a chill up Malg's spine.

"You don't truly think you can actually prevail here, do you?" she asked. "I have been walking these catacombs since my mistress was interred here. They thought they destroyed her then, but it was nothing more than a delay of the inevitable. The Wolf Queen will rise again, stronger and more powerful than she has ever been! She will bend the mortals of Skyrim to her will before she marches on the rest of Tamriel! You and your kind…"

The loud clang of steel on iron brought a sudden end to the vile creature's speech as she watched the tall iron candle stand tip over onto the floor. Her eyes went wide as the lit candlesticks fell from their places into the large pool of oil. She screamed and tried to flee, but the fire blazed through the entire room in less than a second, setting barrels and the old wooden table and chairs alight. Nothing was spared from the fire's consuming wrath, even Jordis' sword, which was burned beyond saving by the time she and Malg were able to descend what was left of the stairs. Rather than letting loose a string of profanities that would make a sailor blush or kicking the charred vampire corpse, Jordis calmly walked back up the stairs, wrested a blade from one of the now fully dead draugr and continued further into the Wolf Queen's lair.

The bodies of the ancient dead stood like sentinels in the next burial chambers, as if someone had designed their final resting places to be less than lasting. Jordis motioned to him to stay close behind as the two of them attempted to pass by undetected. Malg thought they had succeeded until a groan erupted from the burial vault behind them. As he turned, he saw one of the restless dead stepping down from where it had been displayed and taking a large ax from its place on the wall. It slowly twisted its head to the side, and when its dimly glowing eyes settled on the two intruders, an empty hollow roar emanated from its nonexistent throat.

The draugr swung its ax wildly around striking sparks from stone and knocking over the tables and chairs that seemed terribly misplaced in chambers meant for the dead. Jordis leaped into the fight, shearing several pieces of bone from the massive corpse, but the draugr caught her with a hard backhand, which dazed her even through her steel helmet, and slammed her several times into the stone wall. Holding her against the wall by her head, the draugr brought its ax back level with her neck, when Malg hit the monstrous undead with paralysis. The flash of green halted the corpse, and it fell stiffly to the stones. Jordis nodded her thanks and finished the immobilized corpse. Unfortunately, for them, the commotion had awakened more of Potema's servants, and they could hear the groans approaching.

Jordis positioned herself around the corner of the wall and quickly took down the first two undead in a flurry of sword strokes. She blocked the strike from the next, and swung low, lopping off the draugr's leg. When it tried to attack again, the brainless abomination toppled itself. It was the first time Malg saw Jordis laugh just before she crushed it with her shield.

As Malg and Jordis ventured deeper, the catacombs started to show their age. The hand-carved work of skilled masons gave way to old, crumbling stonework placed so long ago that no mason, regardless of talent, could have prevented its decay. The massive roots systems from stalwart Skyrim pines and firs penetrated down through the stone walls, weakened by age, collapsing several areas. Malg and Jordis had to climb and fight their way through much of the ancient structure until they reached the older part of the catacombs.

"This looks more like a Nord burial mound than a modern catacomb," Jordis commented.

"Looks a little like Saarthal," Malg said.

"You've been to Saarthal?" Jordis asked.

Malg nodded.

"I've always wanted to see the ancient capital of the Nordic Empire. Why were you there?" she asked as she split the skull of a corpse just in case it decided the crawl out of its sarcophagus.

"I went there looking for the Eye of Magnus," Malg answered.

"Wasn't that recovered by college mages a while back?" Jordis asked.

Malg sighed, "Yes, yes it was." Malg reached out and grabbed the skull of skeleton nearest to him and squeezed until it fractured with a satisfying crunch.

Around the next corner, Malg and Jordis came across a small circular chamber filled with the bodies of the dead. Jordis signaled him to stay back as she hacked at a few of the more intact corpses. After a moment of two, she motioned for him to proceed and went to open the gate on the far side of the chamber. Malg eyed the dead as he entered the room, doing his best not to step on them, but as he got to the center of the room, he heard a familiar, yet quiet laugh. He looked up and saw the same carved image of the Wolf Queen he had when they first entered the crypt. The door behind him slammed shut before he could warn Jordis, and once again he heard Potema's voice.

"Look what you walked into, little thing," the Wolf Queen smirked. "Don't worry. I will put you to good use. You will be beside me as my undead armies march through Skyrim."

"I refuse!" Malg shouted.

"Not this again," Jordis muttered.

"Foolish orc!" Potema growled. "I was not giving you a choice! Die and be mine!"

An ugly bluish glow surrounded the corpses on the floor, and one by one they started to haul themselves up onto their feet. Malg wanted to bring down a torrent of fire upon the draugr, but the chamber was too confined. If he did, he would end up killing both Jordis and himself in the process. The sword maiden went to work hacking at the rising dead, but there were so many, it was doing little good. Malg paralyzed a few of them, but the spell was quickly draining him. One of the draugr launched a clumsy attack at his head, which cracked hard against gleaming ebony. Malg growled and grabbed the mace from the corpse's grasp and swung hard crushing the skull and obliterating half of the ribcage.

Jordis yelled out in frustration as she ducked and dodged the undead attacks, countering as best she could, but not taking down enough of them as they backed her against the wall. The edge of fear in her voice triggered Malg and rage began to fully take hold. The orc mage swung his staff and mace in wild arcs around the room, smashing three of the bodies to pieces. The fourth blocked his staff with an old iron shield, but Malg abandoned his weapons and ripped the draugr's limb from its body. The ligaments snapped like brittle straw. The crazed orc grabbed the disarmed undead and slammed into the image of the Wolf Queen unto it shattered into pieces.

Malg seized two of the draugr surrounding Jordis and tossed them across the room. With the pressure off, Jordis was able to take down the other. Malg turned on the two he had thrown. A single punch crushed the skull of the first, but at that moment the other struck him across the back with the edge of its sword. However, what would likely have been a fatal blow to most, shattered on the back of the ebony encrusted orc. Malg turned, fury blazing in his eyes, grabbed the draugr by its spine, and began to wretch the abomination in two directions. His roar echoed through the room as the vertebrae began to split and fracture. Small bits of old bone splintered off, and with a final crack, the spine tore in two.

The chamber was empty and quiet except for the sound of Malg's heavy breathing. Nothing moved. Jordis unmoving near the wall, in shock over what she had seen. She had seen orcs go berserk in battle before, but none had ever been so devastating. After a few tense moments, Malg's breathing slowed. He picked up his staff and turned to face Jordis, head slightly hung.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Jordis nodded, "That was incredible."

"It is useful," Malg admitted. "But it's not something I'm proud of."

"Why not?! Do you know how much I wish I could wreak that kind of havoc?! What was that you did to your skin?" Jordis asked as she reached out to touch it. "It's like ebony."

"It is," Malg said. "I altered my skin composition."

"Amazing," she said. "You basically turned yourself into a weapon."

Malg had never considered that before, but Jordis was right. His fists were like two ebony mace heads on the end of his arms.

"And the berserker rage just amplifies it to insane levels," Jordis marveled as she tapped the edge of her sword against Malg's heavily muscled shoulder. "I suppose magic is good for something. You seem to have found here a near perfect weapon."

Strangely, to have such a strong warrior, a professional housecarl, be so impressed by him began to change Malg's opinion. When Wiggles-Her-Fingers had consoled him, it was comforting, but it was pity. Malg was not even sure if she had really meant what she said, but Jordis did. She was in awe of him, and it made him feel good, special even as she admired him.

Jordis looked around at the dead bodies strewn around the room. "I might have been a bit hasty in thinking we would never make it out of here alive," she said. "If you're keeping something like that in reserve, I feel sorry for the Wolf Queen. Let's go get that witch."

The Wolf Queen's sanctum was just down the hallway. Malg could feel the surge of power before they reached the door and warned Jordis that Potema was indeed waiting for them behind the door. Jordis nodded and asked Malg if he was ready to release the berserker again if necessary. Malg assumed he would feel ashamed if anyone would ever ask that question, but he didn't. When Jordis asked it, it was not in fear. It was not in judgment. It was in excitement, anticipation, and admiration. Malg nodded. It was strange. There was part of him that even wanted to.

Jordis thrust open the door and both of them stopped in their tracks. Hovering high above the center of the enormous chamber was a bright blue specter in the vague shape of a human. Power flowed around the form in large energetic swells like water fused with lightning.

"Finally!" Potema's voice echoed throughout the chamber.

"Oh," Jordis sneered. "Her voice is annoying. No wonder it pissed you off."

Potema ignored the taunt and kept talking, "With your corpse and that key, I will start my conquest of Skyrim with the decimation of Solitude!"

"If you cannot get past a locked door without a key, I don't think killing us will suddenly pave your way to the entire province," Jordis jeered again, and this time it struck home.

"Silence, insolent girl!" Potema screamed. "You are nothing to me! Your corpse will join my horde of thralls like the insignificant thing that you are!"

"Blah blah time to die, witch," Jordis said as she walked into the room.

Potema screamed and the lids of the sarcophagi surrounding the room blew off like leaves in the wind revealing heavily armored draugr. Malg leveled his staff at the oncoming horde and let loose a blaze of fire into the room. The old, dry flesh of the corpses instantly caught fire and dropped smoldering to the stones. After the first wave fell, he encased himself in ebony, ready for the coming onslaught of the dead.

Jordis leaped into the fray, newly emboldened by her companion's abilities, slashing at exposed bone and crushing skulls with her shield. Potema's avatar remained hovering above the chamber throwing wild blasts of energy at Malg and Jordis.

Malg cut another swath of fire across the room, bathing the stone coffins in flames and turning corpses to ash until the flames would no longer come. Malg dropped the empty staff and charged at the nearest draugr. He blocked the edge of the ancient Nord ax with his forearm, smashed his fist through its ribcage, and hurled what was left into another walking corpse. Malg jumped forward kicked the next draugr in the chest, denting the breastplate and sending the abomination crashing into the wall. A hollow moan erupted from behind him, and Malg turned to see the largest draugr he had ever seen. The hulking corpse towered over him, clad in piecemeal steel and leather armor and wielding an ax and a dented shield. It also wore a necklace made of human hands, but Malg hardly noticed any of this as he slammed his entire body into it, knocking it to the ground directly below Potema. The draugr tried to drag itself back to its feet, but Malg leaped on top of it smashing his fists into the monster's chest. On its back, the draugr swung its ax, hitting Malg in the side but barely drawing blood before Malg ripped it off. He smashed his fists into the corpse's face several times, crushing its jaw and heavily fracturing its skull before ripping the shield arm off. Malg raised the shield still strapped to the dead arm and buried the edge of it into the abomination's chest. Raising his fists like a massive ebony hammer, he pounded the remains of the shield through the corpse until it crushed the spine and the dim lights in the eye sockets of the skull faded.

"Malg!" Jordis yelled. "She retreated into the back room!"

Malg looked up. Potema was no longer there. He jumped off the remains of massive draugr and charged the door. The impact of Malg's ebony body against the steel door sheared the lock off and broke the hinges out of their stone mounts.

The Wolf Queen's skull sat on a dark throne atop a small stone dais. When Malg charged into the room, followed by Jordis, a skeletal ghost rose from out of her ancient remains.

"You will not stop me!" Potema howled. "I will take on a body, and I will finally have my revenge against the descendants of that filthy mob who tortured my son to death and cost us the throne! I will raise every corpse and daedra I have to in order to bring down the Empire and reforge it into my own!"

"Never!" Malg shouted and charged Potema. Unfortunately, her ghost remained incorporeal, and he fell right through her, cracking several of the stone steps leading up to her throne.

Potema turned and blasted Malg with a bolt of lightning that pinned him to the stones. "Fool!" she hissed. "I am not some mere undead corpse for you to tear apart!"

Jordis attacked, but her sword passed through the Wolf Queen just as Malg had. Potema laughed and sent Jordis crashing into the wall with another bolt of lightning. "I will turn you to ash!" Potema howled. "You are nothing to me!"

With Potema focused on Jordis, Malg came back to his senses. As his vision cleared, he saw a glimmer up on a table next to Potema's throne. At first, it did not register what the crystal was, but then his brain snapped back into full awareness. It was a full grand soul stone. As quietly as he could, Malg crept up the stairs and grabbed the stone. When he turned, he saw Potema still blasting Jordis' unconscious body with bolt after bolt of lightning. He wanted to rage again, but he controlled the rage. He could not defeat her like that.

Malg took a deep breath and leaped off the dais passing through the ghost of Potema again. She laughed and taunted what she thought was another attack and mocking his vain attempts at victory. It was only later that she realized how wrong she was as Malg stood in the doorway to her throne room, his staff and an empty soul gem in his hands. The gem made a hollow sound as it hit the stone floor just before Malg released an immense torrent of fire into the room and enveloping the ghost of the Wolf Queen in flames. Potema howled in rage and pain, but Malg kept up his attack until there was nothing left of the Wolf Queen but smoldering ectoplasm.

Malg walked over to Jordis' still, motionless form. Her armor was dented and charred. Malg knelt down, fully expecting to find her dead, but despite the repeated shocks of lightning and being far too close during the incineration of the ghost, she was still breathing. Shocked and incredibly relieved, Malg quickly fished out one of the healing potions Falk had given him, and after gently tilting Jordis' head back, poured it down her throat.

Soon the burns on her face began to heal over, and her breathing became stronger and more steady. Suddenly, she jumped away from Malg. "What happened?!" she shouted. "Where is she?!"

"Dead," Malg said.

"Oh," Jordis said. There was disappointment in her tone.

"The real mystery is how you are still alive," Malg said. "No one could have survived the number of lightning bolts she struck you with."

Jordis nodded, "I was struck hard with lightning before, a mage came out of a side room and hit me in the side with a bolt. I did not care for it. I only lived because of the steel armor I was wearing. I am not sure why, but lightning wants to go through steel more than the human body, so it did not go through most of my body on the way to the ground. Ever since then I wore thin steel cable down my right leg that touched all my armor and touched the ground. I couldn't move, but the lightning didn't hurt that bad. It was the fire that nearly ended me."

"Sorry," Malg apologized.

"No worries," Jordis said. "It worked out alright. Do you have another one of those potions?"

Malg fished another out of his pack and handed it to her.

Jordis downed it like a shot, and a few moments later, she was on her feet again. "Good," she said. "Much better. Now, let's get what we came here for." She looked around and found Potema's skull, a brittle old object on which someone, at some point had wedged a thin crown. She picked it up and handed it to Malg. "Let's go get this thing exorcised," she said.

Jordis lead the way out of the catacombs. As they navigated back up the seemingly endless labyrinth of corridors, Malg started to hear a whisper in his head. "You do not have to do this, you know," the voice said. "It is an object of great power, power that will vanish if it is exorcised."

Malg was no fool. He recognized the voice, and he was not about to let Potema tempt him into something foolish. He ignored it. He ignored her as she ordered him to return her to her throne, and he ignored the bribes and her pleading. It was difficult, but he managed to ignore the screaming and the long line of creative curses leveled at him by the undead former queen of Solitude. As he got closer to the surface, the begging got more and more desperate and the insults became more and more personal. Malg breathed a sigh of relief when he finally handed the skull over to Styrr, and after a short prayer, the voice disappeared for good.

"Thank you," Malg said.

"No," Styrr said. "Thank you for the opportunity to help put an end to Potema. Please let the steward know that it is done. I am sure he will want to reward you for your service."

Falk Firebeard was no less grateful for the service of Malg to Solitude. After hearing the story, the steward's face grew very pale and he quickly approached Jarl Elisif to tell her what had happened. Malg watched as Falk related the story to her and saw as her face also turned even whiter than it already was. Falk then retired to the side of the throne room, and Jarl Elisif called Malg and Jordis to step forward.

"You have done this city an incredible service," Jarl Elisif proclaimed. "Without your bravery and determination, I fear this city would soon be overrun by a horde of undead commanded by one of the most feared necromancers in history. We are grateful for your service, Malg, and we honor the bravery of you both."

Both Jordis and Malg bowed.

"Thank you, Jarl," Malg replied.

"As reward for this great deed, I grant you the position of thane and the title of Guardian of Solitude," Elisif said. "You will have Proudspire Manor as your personal residence, and I hope you will choose to stay here with us in Solitude."

"It would be an honor," Malg replied. "Thank you."

"And, as you are now a thane," Elisif continued. "You will need a housecarl. I think it is only fitting that the warrior who helped you defeat the Wolf Queen remain at your side."

Malg glanced over to Jordis with a questioning look, and the sword maiden quickly nodded her reply.

"Thank you, Jarl Elisif," Malg replied. "I gladly accept."

"It warms my heart to hear it, Thane Malg," Jarl Elisif said. "I am glad my city will have such an accomplished mage as her guardian."

A few days later, Malg was sitting in his new study on the second story of Proudspire Manor writing a letter:

 _Dear Wiggles-Her-Fingers,_

 _I am sorry for not having written to you sooner, but I have had a lot of unexpected business to attend to._

 _The letter you saw from Falk Firebeard had to do with the undead as we suspected, but it was not another group of necromancers. It was Potema, the Wolf Queen, herself, who was threatening Solitude. As you might imagine, Jordis, my bodyguard, and I were able to defeat her._

 _As reward, Jarl Elisif granted me a couple of titles and a house here in Solitude. It is enormous! I still haven't figured out what to do with a couple of the rooms, and that is after giving Jordis her room._

 _I wanted you to know what happened so you would know I was alright, and to let you know I will not be returning to the College of Winterhold, as my new position requires my presence here._

 _As soon as you are able, please accept my invitation to come and visit for a while. I would like to show you around Solitude and introduce you to Jordis and some of my other friends here. Ahtar and I are becoming good friends, though it is a little weird when he starts talking about work._

 _I look forward to hearing from you, and I hope to see you soon._

 _Your Friend,_

 _Malg_


End file.
